Seeing Double
by Dailenna
Summary: [Royai] Roy has inadvertantly unleashed his fanfiction counterpart upon the world.
1. Burning Houses, Rescues and Unwanted Att

**Disclaimer:** I do not own any of the characters in this story. For the main part, they belong to Arakawa Hiromu, but the Roy look-a-like belongs to the many fanfic writers out there who blatantly OOC him. I wanted to see what would happen if one OOC character was let loose around the others acting normally. So far, I have discovered that OOCness is an infectious disease . . . All "in" character-ness is in relation to the manga.

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"**Seeing Double**" or "**One Flame Starts a Fire; Two Flames Start a Furnace**"by **Dailenna**

**Chapter One: Burning houses, rescues and unwanted attentions**

The house was crumbling as it burned. Sections of the roof had already caved in. Surrounded by flames of his own making, Colonel Roy Mustang had no way of escape. He could attempt a getaway from the fires – maybe smash a window and leap from the balcony to the ground. If there was a balcony. And if the fall didn't drop him right into the middle of some more flames. He had defeated his foe, but now was all the effort worth it?

_Yes_, he decided. If only because it had prevented other deaths, it was worth just two more.

A cry from outside struck his ears. He could hear a familiar voice calling him. His faithful Lieutenant was outside, waiting for him to come. Of course – she would always be there. Mustang gritted his teeth, his indecision clearing. If he didn't go out there she would come looking for him, and likely also perish. He didn't need her death on his hands too.

He couldn't just go out and jump, he knew that much. Further flames were not what he needed right now. Instead, he picked up a stray book from the floor beside him. The fight had toppled a few shelves before he had snapped so carelessly, and this tome was the closest thing at hand at the moment.

With no other medium available to him, Mustang used a finger to wipe his blood precisely on the cover of the book, creating an array. He would douse the flames, and then hopefully someone would be able to come and find him – he didn't have the energy to go to them, now that he thought about it. They would have to come to him, after all – but not until he had done this.

Pressing his hands to the book, the array emitted a lightning-blue glow. All of a sudden, Mustang felt dizzy – it was too much effort for him to do even this. His eyesight dimmed, and he fell unconscious, his arm wiping over the array before the light had completely subsided.

* * *

1st Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye arrived at the scene half an hour too late for her liking. She would have preferred to have been here before even the Colonel, but now she could see the house before her was alight, and the fires didn't seem to be dying out. This was no time for "if only". 

She burst out of the car haphazardly, 2nd Lieutenant Jean Havoc right behind her, and more efficient here than he would ever be in the office. They only had one squad with them, but that should have been more than enough. There was no need for all of the eighty men they commanded between them.

Hawkeye approached the house at a jog. "_Colonel!_" If he was in there somewhere, he would hear her. She didn't know any reason as to why he wouldn't be there, but all the same, hoped that he was somehow out of the house.

Hesitant to send the recruits into a burning building, Hawkeye waited impatiently for a response. "_Colonel!_" He would call back, wouldn't he? He would if he could. But what if he was unconscious? What if the other man had had the upper hand of the fight?

Clenching her fists and her jaw with equal aggravation, Hawkeye was nigh on barking out the command for the soldiers to enter when a burst of blue light shone from the upper left window. He was there, and still able to use alchemy, by the looks of it. She breathed a sigh of relief. They could wait for him, then – he would only be a few moments.

The flames around his section of the house seemed to subside a little – the blaze didn't seem so large, but after another drawn out heartbeat, they sprung up just as high as they had been before. Hawkeye started forwards in confusion. What had just happened?

She spun back and yelled for the soldiers as she removed her gun from its holster in case the enemy had not been entirely vanquished. "We're going to go in! The Colonel is upstairs. Lieutenant Havoc, you stay here with half the men and try to douse this fire – I'll take the others to find the Colonel."

Without waiting for a reply, she ran forwards and sent a powerful kick to the front door of the house. It burst back, weakened by the heat in the air. A few of the men behind her, she darted into the house, one wrist to her mouth as she tried to filter the smoke out with a sleeve.

The staircase was almost immediately to her left. Testing the steps quickly as she ascended, she tried not to close her eyes as the smoke stung them. They had started to weep, and she almost didn't see the figure before her until she bumped into him at the top of the stairs.

_The Colonel!_ She thought with relief as she looked up to see his dark hair and eyes. He looked as confused as she did, but when she motioned downstairs, he nodded. She turned and trotted down, and out the door, gasping in the relatively fresh air with her coughing soldiers.

Havoc looked over to see her and a smile appeared on his face. She gave him a quick wave to let him know that she had found the Colonel, and looked back.

Mustang was just stepping out of the door, and coming towards her now. She could see him carrying someone in his arms. Had someone been inside the house when it went up, or was that the man he had been fighting? She couldn't tell until he drew closer, and she saw the military uniform on the man. A soldier had been inside? Or had one of her men inhaled the smoke and passed out?

No – this man had blood on his uniform. He was injured and broken where the Colonel was not. The contrast struck her harshly all of a sudden. Hadn't Mustang just been fighting? Shouldn't he have injuries? He was good, but not this good.

As he drew closer and she could see the unconscious man's face, it was neither the uniform nor the injuries that shocked her the most. What shocked her most was that the man lolling about unconsciously in Colonel Mustang's arms was an exact replica of Mustang himself.

"Go get a stretcher," Mustang called out towards the soldiers. "Can't you see he's been wounded?" He staggered further forwards, bringing the man towards the group.

"Yessir." Two men sped away.

Hawkeye stepped closer to peer at the face of the look-a-like, and then back at Colonel Mustang. Mustang's mouth formed a grim line and he gave a short laugh at her perplexed expression. "Eerie, isn't it, Riza?"

_Riza?_ "Sir?"

He looked at her sceptically. "Don't tell me now that you can't see the similarities. Not after you've been staring at him bug-eyed." Mustang heaved the man up, attempting to gain a better grip on the slipping fellow.

She remained silent.

After a pause, the unconscious man gave a shuddering gasp, and she saw the soldiers returning with the stretcher. The man was laid out upon it, and taken away. They would take him to the hospital, and likely put someone on guard to ask him a few questions when he awoke. Now that she thought of it, she should probably ask the Colonel about him.

"Now that I'm rid of that dead weight –" Riza's eyes widened as she felt his hand grasp hers tightly, and she was pulled closer to him. Finding herself standing chest to chest with him, she stiffened, and had time to mark the suggestive glint in his eyes before a voice interrupted. A flicker of annoyance crossed Mustang's face as he turned to Havoc. Hawkeye extricated her hand from Mustang's hurriedly.

Havoc's expression was one of shock as he saw this. Was he mistaken, or had he almost witnessed the Colonel and Hawkeye kissing? No, he must have been seeing things. Everyone knew that they had it bad for each other, but theirs was a sort of unspoken agreement of "not yet".

"Colonel, I saw you coming out with a body, but I was too busy to come immediately. Are there any more inside, do you think?" he asked in a business-like manner, ready to send some men in to search if the Colonel said the word.

Mustang looked around in boredom and shrugged. "I don't know. I woke up in there, and saw that git on the ground, so when Riza found me, I thought it'd be best if I brought him with me when I made my triumphant escape from the fiery furnace."

Hawkeye's eyes narrowed, and Havoc met her gaze with one raised eyebrow.

"So, time to leave then, I suppose, Havoc?"

He was still referring to _Havoc_ correctly, Hawkeye noted. "Back to Headquarters, sir," she said in rigid tones.

Hawkeye and Havoc almost jumped at the size of the groan their commanding officer let out then. "Not _paperwork!_ You can't be making me do paperwork after all this, Riza!" She clenched her fists and tried not to remark. "At least tell me where we are!"

At this she and Havoc both whipped their heads towards the ever-increasingly aggravating Colonel. "You don't know where we are?" Havoc asked.

"_Sir_, you were just attempting to apprehend Kenneth the Mauler. Amestris' _number one criminal_ as of last month," Hawkeye told him forcefully.

"Now, I'm sure that I would remember something like that, but the last thing I remember before this was last night." He sent a smouldering glance towards Hawkeye.

Havoc thought his brains were about to turn into liquid. Maybe he _had_ interrupted them at the wrong time. He really didn't think he wanted to hear this if the Colonel and Hawkeye were a couple. He looked to Hawkeye, and became certain that if looks could kill, the whole world would be non-existent by now. Her eyes bored into the Colonel's face with shock and anger. She mustn't have wanted their relationship to get out.

"_What?_" Hawkeye spat. "You are_ out of your mind_ if you think I have allowed you to do so much as lay a _hand_ on me."

Mustang's brow furrowed in confusion, and then he sighed and stepped towards her. "Look, they would have found out anywa–"

"In fact," she cut him off, "the other one is the real Colonel, isn't he? I don't know who you are, but you're in the custody of the military now," she hissed.

Other one? What was this? Havoc looked between them. This was one major lovers' tiff, and he didn't want to be the one to put either of them in their right minds, seeing as he'd likely be the next target. "Well, whatever's going on, we still have to return to HQ. Colonel, you can try to remember what you can along the way, but we have to be going."

The two superior officers buttoned their mouths momentarily, and with one party attempting to give appeasing looks, and the other glaring daggers, they piled into the car.

"Lieutenant Hawkeye, maybe I should drive." Havoc said from his seat in the back.

"Just buckle up. We don't need to take any longer than we have already," she snapped as she started up the car.

From where he sat, Havoc could see the sidelong glances Mustang gave Hawkeye. At first he tried to avoid seeing anything by looking out the window, and he enjoyed a good two minutes of peaceful scenery before the car jolted and the wheels screeched as they came to a halt. Hawkeye's door burst open.

"That's it! I'm not driving anymore." She climbed into the back, ignoring Havoc's surprised glance.

Mustang put an arm over the back of the seat. "Do you want me to sit in the back with you?" A smirk littered his face. Havoc shuddered, and was relieved when Hawkeye replied icily in the negative.

"Mustang – whoever you are – _you _drive."

He shrugged and slid over to the driver's seat, and they started moving along again.

Hawkeye stared at the back of the seat in front of her, trying not to think about the man sitting in it. She wiped a hand across her leg, as though that would remove the feeling of his handprint where he had begun his attempt to fondle her. This was most definitely not _her_ Colonel. He would never try something so base and humiliating, surely.

She ignored Havoc's curious gaze and mentally took apart and cleaned her gun in an attempt to calm herself, and in absence of the cleaning agent she used for it.


	2. Swaying Hips, Hospital Gowns and Sweet D

**Disclaimer:** I do not own any of the characters in this story. For the main part, they belong to Arakawa Hiromu, but the Roy look-a-like belongs to the many fanfic writers out there who blatantly OOC him.

One warning – I make references to the manga, but I do not accept Havoc's current condition. Therefore he is completely bodily abled. Any other variations, feel free to complain about.

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**Chapter two: Swaying hips, hospital gowns and sweet dreams**

He looked into the mirror to see if she was looking back at him yet. Nope – her eyes were focussed down on something else, still. Staring a hole through the seat to his tush for all he knew. He hoped she was. For a moment the thought made him feel warm and fuzzy inside, but then he realised that with the way she had been acting lately it wasn't likely, and he sighed loudly.

He didn't know why she was being so hostile. She wasn't usually this uptight. He was used to her pretty much just falling into his arms, really. Maybe a few paragraphs of "Oh no! It's against the rules!" but then she'd come to her senses. But now, she was being consistently hard to get? It wasn't logical! This wasn't how his life worked! The fact that Havoc was around might have something to do with it, but she hadn't had problems with that before. Now that he thought about it, he could still remember that time when Havoc had burst in on them when they were about to . . . he pushed the smirk from his face – if he kept that up she'd have her gun on him in no time.

It was strange really. He remembered just what he had told them – they had just had another one of those "late nights at the office" as they liked to call them, and then he had found himself in the middle of a burning house, with the blue light of alchemy fading and his mirror-image at his feet. Not wanting to leave a face as handsome as his own to burn in fire – that would be just _too_ ironic – he decided to save the fellow, and what does he get for his heroism, but the cold shoulder. She could at _least_ kiss him, but no – all of a sudden he's not good enough, is he?

Wait a minute. Alchemy? He'd heard from Fullmetal about . . . but Fullmetal said there was some door involved. Was this the same? And there couldn't be two of one person in the one world, could there? What the heck had happened?

He finally pulled up outside Headquarters, and got out of the car. Hawkeye and Havoc got out behind him, Havoc falling in step behind him, but Hawkeye giving him a frosty glare before marching off somewhere. She really didn't realise how much she rolled her hips when she did that. Never mind that – he did enough noticing for the both of them.

"Where are you going, Colonel?" Havoc asked when the Flame Alchemist veered off course so he could keep an eye on Hawkeye's swaying hips.

"Hmmm?"

"Where are you going, Colonel?"

He paused. He should go somewhere. Then maybe he could avoid the paperwork he'd have to do on that Kenneth guy, whom he knew nothing about in the first place. After a moment, he made up his mind. "To the hospital. I want to talk to that man who looks like me." Anyway, that was probably where Hawkeye was going. What a coincidental reason to follow her!

* * *

Opening his eyes blearily, Mustang looked about himself. He was in a sterile, white hospital room. He was lying in a sterile, white hospital bed, and was wearing a sterile, white hospital gown that – when he stood up – would show his sterile, white butt. He decided not to stand up just yet. 

Also, off near the entrance of his room was a pair of subordinates and a –

He blinked, and tried to get the blur from his eyes. Was he having an out of body experience? No – wait. He was in hospital, wasn't he? Maybe he was just plain crazy. It might be best if he called in the nurse to see if it was time for his medicine. Ah, good – he wouldn't have to call. He could see one of them coming towards him.

"Good morning, Colonel Mustang," the nurse smiled. "How did you sleep?"

"Mmm. Fine, I guess. What . . . is that?" He waved at the commotion. Now, it mainly consisted of Hawkeye's pointed glares at . . . him, and his trying to . . . what _was_ he trying to do? It looked as though he was trying to apologise and flirt with her at the same time . . . Why was she allowing him to do that? Why hadn't she given him a piece of her mind yet? Mustang pushed himself up to a sitting position furiously. Havoc was standing back and trying not to get involved in the argument for once.

The nurse, realising the disruption, walked over to them and put a stop to the spat. "You've woken up the patient" was her miffed excuse.

Three head flicked to Mustang. He was awake? They had been carrying on this tirade and Hawkeye had not noticed him stir. They paid no attention to the leaving nurse as Hawkeye stood silently to attention, alongside Havoc.

Mustang's eyes were not focussed on his suddenly behaving subordinates, but on the man slouching casually beside them. "Who are _you_?" Mustang asked him.

The other man's eyebrows rose. "I am Colonel Roy Mustang, the Flame Alchemist – guaranteed to kindle a flame of passion in any woman's heart!" At this he made another attempt at Hawkeye, pulling her to his chest and kissing the back of her hand lightly. Her eyes narrowed dangerously, but before she could do anything, a poisonous voice hissed from the bed, grabbing the attention back away from the man's ambitious claim.

"Firstly, '_Flame'_, **_I_** am Roy Mustang, Flame Alchemist, and _secondly_, release your hold on my Lieutenant or I will char you strongly enough to match your skin to your hair!"

Hawkeye let out a breath of relief when Flame reluctantly let go of her. If she had had any doubts before, she now knew which one was _her_ Colonel. She bit her lip worriedly, at the thought of him having to recover from all of those wounds. These days, no-one knew where Scar might turn up, and if he was to find the Flame Alchemist here and incapacitated, it was doubtless that he would use the opportunity as best as he could.

Seeing she was no longer in the hold of that ridiculous Casanova try-hard, Mustang stopped pretending to get his ignition gloves out from the "back pocket" of his gown. "Now," he enunciated. "Where did you come from? How did you come here?"

Flame looked back at him and shrugged. "I just appeared. For all I know, I could be dreaming, and you lot could be my dream. I mean, I don't remember waking up – just _appearing_, like I said. I think someone must have conjured me with alchemy, because I saw a blue light just as I appeared."

All three of the other officers frowned. The only alchemist at the scene at the time was Mustang.

"Sir? I do remember seeing an alchemic light before we found you both," Hawkeye told Mustang.

He looked upon Flame in disgust. Mustang didn't want to believe that somehow he had summoned this impostor. "The only alchemy I did was to put out the flames," he said slowly. He hesitated a moment. "Then I passed out," came the admittance.

"The flames weren't put out, sir," Hawkeye informed him. "They burst back almost as soon as the light faded."

He frowned. That couldn't be right.

"Did you draw the right array?" Flame asked.

Mustang scowled at him. "Of course I did, or it wouldn't have worked in the first place. My ink must have run – that's all." Something would have had to have happened to the circle to alter it and its purpose. That must have been it. The ink was only blood, after all. He couldn't expect much of it.

Flame walked around the bed and sat in the chair beside it. "Well, the fact is that I am here, and now there are two Mustangs. I can more easily settle in here than go home, I'd say – especially as you don't know exactly what that array mutated to, to bring me here. I may as well find somewhere to live. I'll expect you to give me my own key, of course, Riza."

Havoc couldn't tell who was worse off – Hawkeye, who looked as though she was about to explode; Flame, who was about to bear the brunt of her explosion; Mustang, who seemed to be suffering an apoplectic fit; or of course, himself – about to get caught in the middle of this slowly expanding domestic.

"_Havoc!_" Mustang yelled before Havoc managed to inch his way to the door.

". . . Yes, sir?"

"You will take Flame here to your apartment for the night. We will find some way to send him home. He stays with you until we get him back."

"Yes, sir," Havoc sighed. This was the way they reward him for not sticking his nose in where it wasn't needed. They stick it in for him. He sent a resentful glare to the cocky man sitting on the other side of the room. "Come on," he said eventually. "We've been here all night – I need some sleep before work. If we leave now I might actually get three or four hours."

Flame sighed dramatically. "I need a drink," Hawkeye and Mustang heard as he retreated down the corridor with Havoc.

Mustang eyed his Lieutenant, who watched him with equal ferocity. Finally, she spoke. "You shouldn't have gone so far ahead on your own, Colonel. The flames might almost have consumed you, had it not been for that mishap." She nodded toward the corridor.

"If the flames were still alight, you shouldn't have come in to the house, Lieutenant! Better the life of one than that of a whole squad."

She paused. "I didn't tell you I came into the house."

He looked at her flatly. "But you did." He waited stonily for her to nod. He was rewarded a moment later by the slight movement of her head, and sighed dramatically. "Hawkeye, you need to learn to prioritise! Who knows what sort of falling ceiling or smoky haze could fell you and your men in that sort of danger? Then we would have had another eleven families to send notices of death to, and you know as much as I do that that isn't such a pleasant experience, neither on the giving nor receiving ends."

Hawkeye stood straight and solemnly as he continued to rant at her of her incompetence and idiocy. Her eyes held all the warmth that was needed to let him know she understood. This was the love-language she was used to.

* * *

Hearing the door slam shut behind him, Havoc plodded along to his room and quickly shed his boots before flopping onto his bed. Ahhh, rest at last! A whole night of darting all over the place, and only the Colonel got any sleep out of any of them, and he didn't seem any better for it with all of those bandages over him from the fight. 

If he stayed here for just a moment longer, then his eyes would drift shut and he could return to that paradise in the country he had been dreaming about the night before. That one with all of those women hanging off him. Just a second more . . .

"Havoc."

_No! A second more – that's all it will take!_

"Havoc."

_Go away you git! Can't you see I'm sleeping?_

"Havoc!"

Havoc made some sort of non-committal noise. Something along the lines of "Mmmrmrmmrrnggg?"

"I'm not sleeping in your bed if that's what you want. You may hold your dates for a short enough time to suggest that sort of orientation, but I prefer women myself."

His eyes flew open "What the heck are you talking about? I have too had decent dates with women! Good-looking ones, too!"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm sure, _Jaclyn_. I need a bed, and I wouldn't sleep with you if you got down on your knees and begged," Flame said imperiously. Havoc scowled at him. Was this guy going to be this up himself the whole time he was staying? If Colonel Mustang hadn't ordered him to keep him, Havoc had a good mind to boot him out.

As it was, all Havoc did was climb off his bed and trudge to the linen cupboard to pull a blanket out.

"Go make yourself a bed on the lounge," he growled, waving Flame in the direction of the lounge-room.

Flame gave him a blank stare. "Don't be an idiot, Havoc. You can have the couch, I'll take the bed. I'm the commanding officer."

Before he could trundle his way merrily into Havoc's bedroom, Havoc put a firm hand on his shoulder. "Not in _this_ world, Flame. _You_ can have the lounge. I'm going back to _my_ bed." He let his legs carry him back into his bedroom, and this time with a bit more control, crawled into his bed and hugged his pillow close.


	3. RoostRuling, Love Letters and Noonday S

**Disclaimer:** I do not own any of the characters in this story. For the main part, they belong to Arakawa Hiromu, but the Roy look-a-like belongs to the many fanfic writers out there who blatantly OOC him.

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**Chapter three: Roost-ruling, love letters and noonday storms**

Sauntering into the office, Flame looked about himself. So this was a different world to his own? It didn't look so different to him. Maybe a little more boring, but he was sure that he could change that. By the look of it, people were actually doing their work. It was completely inexplicable!

Whatever was happening, he knew that he owned this place until Mustang got back. No-one would know the difference between them, after all. He smiled cockily as Falman, Feury and Breda saluted him upon his entrance to the office.

"Good morning, sir," Falman said.

"Why are you wearing mufti today?" Feury asked bemusedly.

Havoc had lent him some clothes after a small dispute – Havoc didn't want his clothes sullied by Flame's charismatic presence. At least, that was the way that Flame chose to see it. Flame had refused to wear the same uniform two nights in a row. Usually it wouldn't bother him if he had stayed the night, ah, somewhere else, but in this case, he didn't want to come out of Havoc's house wearing the same thing, despite the fact that he should be wearing his uniform anyway.

"You don't have to salute this one. He's a fake." Havoc blundered into the office, shattering Flame's dreams of ruling the roost even for a few days. His face fell and he narrowed his eyes dangerously.

In an instant the faces of the three men on the other side of the room adopted bewildered expressions. They looked between Flame and Havoc in confusion. "Fake?"

"Mmyeah. There are two of him, now. The real Colonel has been in the hospital for the night, and this one . . . well, if you saw him in action, you'd be able to tell them apart. Just keep in mind that this one is somewhat eccentric. Nothing in between for you, is there Flame?"

Flame stalked over to Mustang's desk in a huff. Havoc just had to go and spoil it all. Where were his gloves now, when he needed them the most? There should be a spare pair one of his desk drawers. Sitting down in his chair, he shuffled through them, leaving Havoc to roll his eyes and make his way to his own work place.

Since he was here, Flame thought he'd discover what this fellow kept in his desk. Maybe if he was lucky, he'd be able to find a bottle of scotch or _something_ decent. He hadn't been able to have his usual nightcap the night before, because of the whole fuss going on about his sudden appearance. When Havoc had passed out on his bed, Flame had rummaged around in his cupboards and fridge, but there had been _nothing_ there worth passing through his body. How pathetic!

Top drawer: A few pens, a bunch of papers – he couldn't be bothered looking through the papers at the moment. They were most likely just random paperwork the man hadn't wanted to do. Actually, now he thought, that was a good way to get rid of it – hide it. He'd have to try that when he got back home.

Second drawer: Envelopes and a few letters. Ooh, personal perhaps? Flame lifted the top one out and scanned it. Work again. Didn't this man have anything else to do with his time? He could at least have _something_ decent here. Flame grabbed the next letter. Work again. And again. And again. And again. And a– wait a minute. Hel-_lo!_

He had just been scanning them briefly, since they seemed out of his interest, but this one he looked over again. For the main part, the letters had all commenced with a succinct _Colonel Mustang,_ but this one was different. _Dear Roy_, it began. If that was work-related, then he was a virgin! He chuckled at his own joke before reading on, leaving the final drawer to be searched forgotten for the present.

_Dear Roy,_

_It has been some time since I last saw you. Where have you been these months? Father says you're too independent to come back, and that you're too much of a "wildcard". I don't entirely believe him, but you've been gone so long that I just don't know what to think. Will you ever –_

With an aggravated sigh, Flame skipped forwards past the whining voice to find a more interesting passage. It didn't _have_ to be saucy – he just preferred it that way. If it had something else he found interest in, like women, alchemy, alcohol or ripping off Fullmetal, then it might just catch his eye for a moment.

_I've been helping Father with his research of late. His eyes are worsening, and sometimes he needs me read for him, when he cannot focus. If you came back, I'm sure he'd ask your help instead, Roy. He did always prefer yours after all; you understand what you're reading, and he has always felt that peculiar affinity for you._

No use in reading about research if it didn't even say what research this was. His hand went to throw the letter away, until his eye caught the word "alchemy" and he was drawn back in.

_He thinks that he has almost perfected his alchemy. "Only a little more," he has been saying this last week. I believe that will mean he will have it completed within the month._

Perfected alchemy? What alchemy was this? If it could get him back home somehow, then maybe he should pay a visit to this man. Completed within a month? He checked to see the date of the letter and recoiled in surprise. It was dated almost ten years ago! It _must_ be done by now! His eyes darted back to the letter, absorbing what he could.

"Flame," a stern voice interrupted. He looked up to see Hawkeye and smiled, forgetting the letter for a moment. "What are you doing here?"

He leant back in Mustang's seat, placing the letter carelessly in his lap as he crossed one ankle over his knee. "What did you want me to do? Wait at Havoc's house patiently until this all blew over? I would much rather be here. Then I get to see your lovely face." She scowled. "Besides, I can run this joint until Mustang gets out of hospital, right? In fact, why stop then? I could –"

"I'm sure you could do a lot, Flame, but we do not need your help," she interrupted him stiffly, folding her arms across her chest.

"Oh well then," he said airily as he eyed her. "I have places I can go for a while, I suppose. Come with me on a trip, Riza," he smiled, now waving the letter about before her.

She blinked as the paper appeared directly in front of her eyes. "What is that?"

Her eyes were following the letter in a most enthralling fashion. It pleased Flame to see her finally paying some attention to him that for once didn't seem to be completely negative. "I know, I know – how would even this _sensuous_ Flame receive mail when he hasn't been here for even a day yet? Have the masses of women already discovered his unique presence in this dingy little hole? No, no, I assure you, this isn't a love letter – you have nothing to be jealous of. Well – it might become one somewhere along the lines, but I haven't read that far. I found it in Mustang's desk."

When Hawkeye began to frown, Flame's self-assured smile slipped – she didn't seem to be reaching for her gun, yet he hadn't seen that expression in any other case . . . in his own world.

"What do you think gives you the right to go through the Colonel's drawers?" she hissed at him, snatching the letter from his hand. Rather than looking at the contents of it, she folded it back up.

By this time, Flame had noticed Falman and Breda watching him curiously. Their observation encouraged him not to cower, but rather to present a brave front. "I am Colonel Mustang myself, if you haven't noticed," he told her. "I thought that the contents of his drawers would be similar to my own, and I was just checking."

Her eyebrow raised and her lips pursed delightfully. "I am sure of that, Flame. However, maybe it will be more convenient for us all if you do _not_ attempt to take the Colonel's position. We do not want the men developing any unnecessary attachments before you leave."

Of course not. He didn't want that either. But he was sure that it wouldn't be the men becoming attached it to him. Nor him to them.

"Well then, Riza, what am I supposed to do now?"

"Firstly, you will stop addressing me so familiarly. Secondly, you will refrain from rummaging around in the Colonel's desk. Thirdly, you can either look for a way to get yourself out of our path, or you can go talk to the Colonel." She looked at him expectantly, waiting for his action. Flame couldn't help but notice the way her lashes framed her eyes perfectly in their displeasure.

He sighed in a hint of the dramatic and stood. Satisfied, Hawkeye turned to walk to her own workplace. Flame entertained the thought of grabbing her waist and kissing her, but she was mad enough for now. The woman he knew as Riza was scintillating for sure, but dangerous enough that she proved to live up to her name when she was angered. He didn't want to know if this one was the same.

So instead, he wandered out into the hallway, subsequently slipping his hands into pockets and wandering off.

* * *

The clock ticked away in the hospital room, providing the only sense of time passing for Mustang. He tapped his pen on the papers before him impatiently. If it didn't seem as though nothing was happening, he would be able to concentrate better. Lieutenant Hawkeye had dropped off a little bit of work and a few books for him earlier, so that he wouldn't be completely devoid of activity. 

This morning, after he had woken from his latest "nap" – just before the Lieutenant had arrived – a doctor had come by to let him know his injuries weren't as bad as they had originally suspected. He had many superficial lacerations, and one or two that were slightly deeper, but still not serious. He had, however, inhaled enough smoke that they were keeping him in for another night, but unless he presented with further problems, that was the worst of his impairments.

Looking out the window he was lucky enough to have in his room – oh, the benefits of being an officer! – Mustang could see a gloomy looking sky and a soon-to-be-sodden patch of grass. A quick flash of light showed off in the distance.

"A little early in the day for a thunderstorm," he remarked to himself. It made him think of his childhood. When he was younger, midday storms had not been as uncommon as they were now. Now, even a morning shower was cleared away by the noonday sun. It was almost refreshing to see the grey skies.

Lazily, he let himself lean back onto the pillows stacked behind his head. He had already done half of the work Hawkeye had brought him to do. He could allow himself a small break. His eyes drooped lower and after a moment he allowed them to close.

Something made a sound nearby him, and his eyes flew open. The Lieutenant was crouched by his bed, picking up fallen papers from the floor, where they had spread over a good few square feet.

"When did you get here?" he asked groggily, wiping the newly accumulated sleep from his eyes. He stretched out for a moment before shaking himself awake to watch her.

She looked up in surprise, her fingers pausing in their quest. "The nurse let me in a minute ago, sir," her voice pronounced crisply as she continued to gather the scattered papers. He could see even from here that she sorted them back into two piles – the ones he had completed and those yet to be done.

"Lunch break?"

"Yes, sir."

He nodded, looking about himself. "What time is it?" Where was that ticking clock when he needed it?

Her reply was punctual as usual. "Thirteen hundred hours, Colonel." She straightened, the paper now a neat stack in her arms – one finger separating the two sections from each other. She placed one pile on the bedside table and let the other rest on her hip before picking up his pen from the ground and placing it beside the papers.

Eyes wandering over her business-like expression, he nodded. He hadn't been sleeping for long, then. Raising a hand to scratch his head, he hesitantly asked her how Flame was doing, and sighed over the scowl that crossed her face.

"He came into work, positioned himself at your desk and proceeded to look through the contents of your desk as far as I can tell, sir."

Oh.

The scowl was no longer merely on Hawkeye's face. Flame had taken the opportunity to go through his desk, then? There was nothing damning in there, ultimately, but a lot of things the man could take the wrong way, or which could fuel his generally aggravating personality. How the man was supposed to be the same person as Mustang, he didn't know.

"He was reading this when I found him, sir," Hawkeye said, proffering a folded piece of paper. "I didn't look at it, but I thought I should not put it back where he would find it again. He seemed to be making a fuss about it."

Warily – that letter could be almost anything, and if Flame was fussing over it, it seemed even worse for Mustang – he reached out his hand and took the sheet. He opened it and looked at it.

_Dear Roy_,

_It has been some time – _

The sheet was immediately returned to its original rectangle. He knew what it was. There were a few things in the letter which might have caught Flame's eye, and he didn't know which one the man had seen – if it had only been one, that was.

Hawkeye's voice broke through his silent reverie. "Flame said that he hadn't read it all. I don't know how much of it he had, though."

Hadn't read it all. Then, the first thing he would have seen would be . . . Mustang pulled it open once more and skimmed over it to see what was in there.


	4. Counting Girls, Panicked Calls and Verbo

**Disclaimer:** I do not own any of the characters in this story. For the main part, they belong to Arakawa Hiromu, but the Roy look-a-like belongs to the many fanfic writers out there who blatantly OOC him.

* * *

**Chapter four: Counting girls, panicked calls and verbose nurses.**

The day had becoming bearable, in the "you experience this sort of crap every day, not just when you have some whacked-out version of your boss is hanging around you" sort of way, when Flame had left Headquarters. At first Havoc was attacked by the idea that the man would go back to his place and trash it while he was out, but then he realised that Flame didn't have a key, and something inside him decided that no-one would be stupid enough to burn the door down just to get inside. He didn't think Flame used any other sort of alchemy. He _hoped_ Flame didn't use any other sort of alchemy.

His work had been boring at the best. So breath-takingly boring – so ordinary that he was able to handle it without so much as one growl of frustration, unlike some other chores he had now been given care of.

Happily entering the building his apartment made its nest in, Havoc climbed up two sets of stairs and paused warily at the distinct lack of one disgruntled other-worlder. His door was still blissfully intact, but he braced himself as he turned his key in the lock – he would not be surprised by any mess, destruction or arsony. Outraged, yes. Devastated, yes. Surprised, no. The door was flung open to reveal–

Nothing.

A tidy little apartment with maybe one or two things out of place – just the way he had left it. He cautiously entered, before searching the flat. No-one at all. He was the only person in there. It was oddly unsettling.

He took two strides to the phone and picked it up.

* * *

A tuneful whistle echoed around the platform. The other inhabitants looked at the man for a moment before averting their eyes so as not to seem rude. The few who had taken the time to speak to the man also averted their eyes, but they did so in the hopes that he wouldn't meet their eyes and restart their conversation. All people on the platform waited impatiently for the train. 

Soon the whistle was accompanied by the chka-chka of an engine, and faces peered around the corner. To their contentment, a train pulled up before them in a smoky haze. A stream of people rushed out and those already on the platform fought to maintain their position, and then to finally get into a carriage.

Flame strode in happily, taking note – _seven, eight_ – of each of the female heads that turned ever-so-slightly in his direction as he passed them. _Nine, ten, eleven._ He walked down the carriage, trying to find a compartment. _Twelve_. The platform had not been as full as it might have been, but the train seemed to be well occupied. _Thirteen, fourteen._ Most of the compartments he stuck his head into – _fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen_ – were almost completely filled, and if they weren't – _nineteen, twenty_ – then the inhabitants included at least one fiercely featured male, who for the sake of his mirror, he decided not to risk.

Half way down the train – _thirty-two, thirty-three, thirty-four_ – he had found a compartment – _thirty-five, thirty-six_ – that wasn't too crowded. He asked the three already seated whether he could join them, and received a hesitant assent. Number thirty-seven hadn't said anything, she just watched him with wide eyes. He gave her a confident smile, and settled down opposite her.

* * *

The Colonel was looking fine, they had said. He would be discharged the following day, provided there were no complications. Hawkeye strode out of the hospital, the last of the Colonel's work tucked neatly under her arm. She would hand it in at Headquarters, and then head home – it was already completely dark out. 

She made her way through the corridors, but before she could get to the exit, a nurse walked up to her.

"Excuse me, miss, but are you Lieutenant Hawkeye?" the woman asked hurriedly, obviously having eyed Hawkeye's uniform and thought it was a safer bet the Lieutenant would be the woman in military clothing than one of the few obvious civilians.

"Yes."

"We have a phone call for you from a Lieutenant Havoc?" The nurse's tone lifted at the end, leaving her question unasked, and her statement questionable.

Hawkeye frowned. Why would Havoc be calling her at the hospital? If it wasn't urgent, it could wait until she was at home, at the very least. "Yes, I'll take it." Had something happened?

The nurse smiled and led Hawkeye to a phone at the reception desk. "Lieutenant?" came Havoc's voice on the other end

"Yes, Havoc. What has happened?"

"I don't know where Flame is." Her eyes widened. "I came home, and no-one was outside my apartment, no-one was inside it. I don't know where else to look for him, because he's been around for what? A day? I was just hoping, so that I don't have a part in having unleashed the world's greatest horror upon it that maybe he was there at the hospital with the Colonel . . ."

By this time, Hawkeye was tapping her fingers irritably on the counter. The receptionist spared her a glance and she laid them flat, resisting the temptation to continue to fidget. "I haven't seen him since I sent him out of the office. Unless he's arrived in the last minute or two, he isn't here."

She heard a sigh on the other end of the phone before the rushed voice began again. "He's the same person as the Colonel, right? Would you be able to ask the Colonel where he thinks Flame is, and come help me look?" He was grabbing at straws now.

"They may look the same, but they act completely differently, Havoc. I don't see how the Colonel could know where he is."

"Just ask him?"

She didn't want to ask the Colonel. Already, she half expected him to jump out of that bed and try to find the man just for an excuse to stretch his legs. He didn't need the extra motivation of _Flame_ being out in the world. "Alright," she said hesitantly.

"Thanks. I'll see you in a few minutes, then."

She hung up the phone, muttering a quick thank you to the receptionist, grabbing the papers and heading back to the Colonel's hospital room.

As she entered, he looked up from the book he had been writing in blankly. "Not planning on sleeping tonight, I see" he said, referring to her previous reason for leaving as she came to stand by his bed.

"I received a phone call from Havoc as I was leaving, sir. Flame has gone missing–"

"_What!?_"

"Havoc asked me to see if you would have any ideas as to his whereabouts. If you were an intensely less stable version of yourself, where would you have gone?"

She could see the cogs in his head moving as he quieted down. His face reflected the gradually more depressing thoughts in his mind. "Where ever he is, people are going to think he's me," he groaned. "He could be destroying my name as we speak! Go call a nurse in – I need to be discharged."

"Sir, they want to keep you in another night."

"I know that, but it's just one night. I'll be fine. We need to get Flame _now_ before he goes and gets me dishonourably discharged from the military."

Round, red eyes became rounder with their shock. Practical as she was, Hawkeye had not managed to come to that conclusion yet. "Right away, sir." She turned on the balls of her feet and marched out of the room to find a nurse.

Mustang remained in his bed, letting those cogs tick as far as he could get them to. If he went to the very end of his mind's concept of the man, surely he would be somewhere near what was actually happening. Flame had "popped in" for a conversation earlier that day – _just before he went missing_, Mustang supposed – and they had both been asking one another questions in attempts to learn more about each other's world. Maybe he could grasp some idea from that.

What did Flame seem to like so far? Mustang cast his mind over the previous day. His foremost idea of the man was that Flame was pompous, self-centred and arrogant. That meant that he could have been doing anything from primping and preening in a reflection that had caught his eye, to having a manicure at a salon. But the man also seemed to have some pride in his masculinity – he was more likely to be out introducing himself in his own spectacular fashion to the women of Central. Lady killer indeed. He also seemed quite set on the "Flame Alchemist" idea, so did that mean that wherever he was, he would be setting fires left, right and centre? Mustang scratched that idea out. He hadn't seen Flame light one fire as of yet. Now that he thought of it, Flame didn't even wear his gloves. Wouldn't he be wearing his gloves for his own self-protection? A pansy like that? Or maybe he had been asleep when Mustang had called him over. That could not be right, however: the man was in his uniform – unless he slept in his uniform, there was little chance of–

Oh. That was right; he had been with "Riza". Despite the fact that Flame's Riza was a completely different person to his own Hawkeye, Mustang's eyebrow twitched at the thought. Likely he had discarded his gloves for –ah– safety reasons. His face reddened and he swiftly emptied his mind of all thoughts of Flame and Riza. And himself and Hawkeye. What had he been thinking before?

Gloves. Fire. Women. Manicures. Flame. What else had the man been doing since he arrived? Staying with Havoc – he seemed to dislike that, from their previous conversations - trying to usurp Mustang's place in his office, and . . . snooping in his drawers!_ The letter!_ What had he done with it when he had finished reading it last time? Mustang patted where his pockets should be, forgetting that the hospital gown didn't have any. His glare moved from the now sufficiently death-stared foot of his bed to the bedside table. His fingers flicked through the items on it quickly. Book. Book. _Letter! Yes!_ Snatching it up, he searched through it. Of course: in the top, right corner, just as it should be. An address.

Hawkeye was returning with a slip of a nurse just as he found the address, and he looked up to her, his face pale. Her eyes questioned him, but he addressed the nurse first. "I'm going to have to apologise for disobeying doctors' orders, but I cannot be in here any longer. I was merely being kept 'just in case', wasn't I?"

"Yes, Colonel Mustang," the girl replied, her expression betraying her confusion. "But if it is such a dire activity you hasten to, maybe it would be best to send someone else?" Just because she was young didn't mean that the girl was short of a vocabulary, he duly noted.

"It is less of an activity and more of a chore. I won't be engaging in any foreseen battle – one of my responsibilities has gone missing, and I need to find him before he does anything stupid."

"Yet, there is no-one else who could do it?" she repeated.

Mustang sighed. "My condition is not so terrible that a simple train ride would disable me, is it?"

She looked at him dubiously. No wonder she was here so young – the girl seemed set in her course to convince him to remain. It would only take being more stubborn than she was to get out of here.

"There is nothing wrong with me, nurse. There is no real reason to keep me here."

With a roll of her eyes, she nodded. "Very well, then. I'll just go and get you those discharge papers."

Mustang nodded his thanks as she departed, and when the girl was gone, he beckoned Hawkeye from where she stood at the foot of his bed and held the letter towards her. "Tell me what you see in that," he said.

Her eyes had scanned almost half the page before they widened in realisation. "Flame has gone . . . here, then?"

Sighing, he gave her a quick assent. She had picked it up quickly. "Who knows what he's looking for. We may as well just go and see what we can do."

The bright lights of the hospital made it easier for him to see the movement as she swallowed nervously. She did have a lovely neck. Mustang blinked the thought away. Evidently a few hours in the company of Flame was too much for him.

When the nurse returned with the forms, Mustang signed all of his information eagerly, and she gave him a hesitant smile before bustling off to get his belongings for him.

"We'll be going here, then?" Hawkeye asked hesitantly when they were alone once again.

"Yes. You, Havoc, and I. Call Havoc and let him know to meet us at the train station in three hours, with some spare clothes. Then call work and let someone know the three of us are taking some short-notice days off. Three days should do it. We'll have him and be back by then. Then go and pack some spare clothes for yourself. We'll meet at the station."

"You don't need a lift home?"

"Uhh . . . maybe if you could wait a little bit, and give me a lift home," he amended, choosing to ignore the slight curve her lips had just gained.

"Of course. I'll ask the hospital staff if I can use their phone to call Havoc. I need to go into work to drop off your papers anyway, so I can ask about leave then."

_Yes. Ask. _"Do you remember it all?" he asked her before she walked out the door. The nurse was just returning with his belongings.

"Yes, sir. Three hours to the train station; three people taking days off work; three days being taken off work. Always a pattern. This one's just more obvious than most." Now he could see her eyes laughing at him.

"Yes, yes. Go on. I can't get dressed with you hanging around," he said gruffly and she scampered off.

The nurse merely raised an eyebrow at him before placing his washed and folded uniform on the bed. She walked to the curtains and drew them, while telling him "make sure you take everything with you, and present yourself to the reception desk when you're done," before leaving.

He waited until she was outside and the door had been firmly shut before he leapt out of the bed and ripped the gown over his head. Even if he was in a hospital, and it was a _hospital gown_, being in a dress just wasn't Mustang's idea of a comfortable time. Especially when it didn't pull the whole way around and he could feel the edges of it imprinting into his backside when he sat on it for too long. He lovingly slipped back into his uniform, glad that they had washed the blood out. There were still a few tears and maybe a patch or two that didn't look entirely made up of blue, but they had done a good job of cleaning it up, altogether. His feet thumped back into his boots, and he was complete again.

What had he been doing? Oh yes, collecting the various items he had strewn about the room before presenting himself to the reception desk. He grabbed the books on the bedside table and glanced around. One card from the guys at the office and his house keys remained, but he snatched them up and after looking around for the letter. Had Hawkeye given it back to him, or did she still have it? Content that it wasn't with his own things, he decided that she must have taken it with her. Besides, even if she hadn't he knew the address off by heart. He had lived there for a time, after all.


	5. Hometowns, Homesickness and Homelessness

**Disclaimer:** I do not own any of the main characters in this story. For the main part, they belong to Arakawa Hiromu, but the Roy look-a-like belongs to the many fanfic writers out there who blatantly OOC him.

**Spoilers:** For Chapter 58

**

* * *

****Chapter five: Hometowns, homesickness, and homelessness.**

"So where is he?"

Havoc's statement was a simple question, but it caused the other person's jaw to clench firmly, remembering the man they were there to chase after. Chasing after a man who was not even a fugitive, but still adequately dangerous should he have the right tools at his hands.

He had been waiting for Hawkeye to get back to him, and spent his time sitting on the lounge, fidgeting and tapping his feet nervously when the phone had rung. The resounding ring had caused him to start terribly, and when he answered, the voice on the end instructed him to pack some clothes and meet at the train station. He had received only a brief explanation before Hawkeye had hung up to go and ready herself.

Not only had Flame been unleashed upon Central, but also on the rest of Amestris. If he was indeed commuting on the train, he could have been half way over the country by now. Havoc had packed hurriedly, and appeared with a messily stuffed suitcase at the station a good half hour before he had been directed to, just to satisfy his fear that he would be late.

"We're just checking to see if he came through, but it's near to certain, Havoc. If he's been here, then we'll be taking a blast to the past." The distasteful expression on Mustang's face painted an idea of just how unwelcome this was for him.

"Hometown, sir?"

A disgruntled grunt was followed by "Mmm." Havoc took that as a yes. It didn't sound as though Mustang was too fond of his hometown. Perhaps he had had a traumatic childhood. They lapsed into silence, both staring off into the distance, thinking their own thoughts. After a moment, Havoc noticed Hawkeye approaching.

"I spoke with the stationmaster, Colonel," she began as she approached. "He said that he noticed someone of your description on Platform Four close to fifteen-hundred hours. 'Wouldn't have noticed the fellow if he hadn't been whistling so off-tune and disturbing the whole station' he said." She crossed her arms at looked between the two of them.

Mustang nodded. "Well, we know where he's gone. Now we just need to hope that he hasn't caused too much of a disturbance."

Both Havoc and Hawkeye nodded. Havoc's brain was running over all of the chaos that Flame could have caused without someone to watch him. Not that having one of them there would do much good unless they physically restrained the man – and not to mean any offence to his superior officers, but they weren't likely to do a good job: first, Hawkeye was a woman. Flame would _like_ having her all over him; second, Mustang was an alchemist, not a proper soldier. Sure, he was fit_­_ – he could run long and fast enough to keep up with a target when necessary – but was he strong? Flame looked _buff_, and with a little effort, he'd be able to put off his less-muscled mirror-image.

* * *

The town was oddly small. Flame hadn't seen it in his own world – or if he had, it had been extremely different to his version, just as this Central had a few less parks than his own. Here, the road was just packed dirt, and there were a few shops on either side of him, but it didn't have the business-like efficiency of the city. Flame could see a man on the other side of the road, locking up what seemed to be the post-office. Better to ask him than continue on lost as it started to get dark. The orange light of dusk was bad enough. 

"Excuse me," Flame called as he crossed the road. Yes, he could be polite when he felt the need. "Could I ask a favour?"

The man looked up at him and smiled as he pocketed the keys. "Roy?"

He paused, uncertainly. It should have been obvious to him that Mustang had been in this town before. It _had_ said something like that in the letter, after all. Not knowing how to respond to the man, Flame just smiled back.

"Roy! I haven't seen you in years! Still in the military?" His voice had acquired a disapproving tint to it as he asked his question, and he now looked on Flame sternly.

Flame didn't like that look. It made him feel as though he had done something wrong. "Yes, and I'm doing well, too. Give another month or so and I'll be a Brigadier General." He knew he was acting childish in front of a man that he didn't know, but the fellow was undermining his authority. He felt as though he had to build himself higher somehow.

The only response he got was a drawn out "Mmmmm."

To curb his growing annoyance, Flame shook himself and tore his hand out of the pocket it had inched into – no gloves there. "Would you be able to tell me the way to this address?" He proffered the piece of paper he had removed from his pocket when no gloves made themselves available.

Taking the paper, the man took a step towards the light hanging off the post-office wall before he looked down at it, and Flame saw his expression become bemused. "Are you sure you need directions?"

Of course. He should know where the house was. Apparently he'd been there before. How was he supposed to get through this predicament? A hand edged up to scratch the back of his neck with embarrassment as he thought on his feet. "Umm, I thought that I remembered the way, but I ended up getting lost when I tried to find it. That's why I need directions." That sounded plausible, and from the grin on the man's face, he'd believed it.

"I suppose that it has been that long, after all. You can't remember _everything_, big alchemist or not. Well," he turned to point in the other direction while watching Flame to make sure he understood. "Follow the main road for a kilometre, and turn left at Georg's butchery. You'll pass two streets before you take a right at Ternville Lodge, and keep going for another hundred or so metres. I'll be there. Isn't as pretty a place as it used to be, of course, but it's still standing."

"Left at Georg's butchery, right at Ternville, and one hundred metres down that road. Alright, thanks for that." Flame started moving off.

"No problems. Are you going to be around long this time, Roy?"

"It all depends on how long it takes me to find what I want," he called over his shoulder, and gave the man a wave of his hand.

Finally, the fellow – whose name Flame hadn't caught – allowed it to pass, and Flame trotted off in the direction he had been pointed in, easing into the growing shadow as he got further away from the lights placed haphazardly along the shopfronts. Left at Georg's butchery, a kilometre ahead, the man had said. Flame settled into a stroll, keeping an eye on the buildings he passed.

By this time he was missing his home – where the women wouldn't just stare, but they'd also practically drape themselves over his arm in an attempt to gain his attention. He missed strolling into his office – _his_ office, not that Mustang's! – with them and seeing Riza's eyebrow twitch and her fingers fidget as though they wanted to discharge all of her bullets into him. Ahh, she was a jealous woman – beautifully jealous. This Hawkeye seemed not to care what he did. He didn't know what she thought about Mustang – from his rigid behaviour, he couldn't see the man having had a woman in his whole life. It was a possibility, of course – he had the looks for it – but only if he loosened up a little. They all seemed too work-oriented. And Havoc? He was just a let down. No boasting about finally getting a girlfriend (just in time for Flame to swoop in for the 'kill' every time), and sure, his apartment smelt of smoke, but it didn't oooooooze it as his world's Havoc's did. Not that Flame had been in there for anything other than a New Years party the year before, of course!

If this man's alchemy research was completed, he might know something about how to return Flame to his own world, with all of its imperfections and perfections. The fact that the type of alchemy he studied might not be the right one had only just occurred to Flame, but he shrugged off the idea. With his own alchemy finished, he could have a look at another sort, surely?

A sign loomed up before Flame. 'Georg's Butchery'. Flame turned down the road in front of it, and saw that the buildings were significantly fewer and further between down this road. He was supposed to turn right on the second street. There was one, just a short distance ahead, and as he passed it he caught sight of the next. He was about to turn down it when a little voice in his head told him to keep on the road he had been on. Not one to argue with voices in his head, he returned to the path he had been on and instead took the right after that. _Good work. This is the one. One hundred metres._ The house on his left had a gate leading up to it, with a sign saying "Ternville Lodge" on it. Flame laughed; fair enough, he'd trust that.

He could see the shadow of another house in the distance, and walked up towards it. As he got closer he realised that there were no lights in the windows. Was no-one awake even this early?

It was a large house, he realised as he approached it, but something was not right about it. Nine years. Was it possible that the family had moved out and left it, or were they just visiting someone else? Flame wandered up the porch and knocked on the door. He waited a few minutes, but there was no sound from inside the house, and no-one opened the door. In the shade he could see a seat on one side of the porch and he went to go and sit in it. As he landed, he could see swirls of dust rise up in front of him, and he coughed as dust invaded his lungs.

Would it be worth staying here for the night, or should he go back to Ternville to ask if they had a spare room? He looked about himself as well as he could through the gloom and decided on the latter. If he was well-known in the area, then they might give him a room. Provided they didn't hate his mirror-image. He couldn't see any reason why they could. No-one could hate such a bland individual. Not when there was someone as passionate as himself around. Yes, he admitted that there were a few people who had it in for him in his own reality, but they were all men, and as such, it was of no consequence.

He rose from the dusty chair and wandered back down the road to the lodge. When he knocked on the door, a surprised face met his and he was welcomed in.

* * *

The engine of the train was relatively quiet, Mustang would admit. Technology was devising new ways to make travel more comfortable and enjoyable. They had boarded the train at 1032 hours, and it was expected that they would reach their destination just after 0300 hours. Mustang had spoken with one of the attendants and asked if they could be woken at the stop before the one they wished to get off at. 

Now he sat, too awake to sleep, for the present. He had rested for so long at the hospital that now he sat and watched while Havoc lay sprawled over the opposite seat and Hawkeye attempted to keep her eyes open next to him. She had taken each of her guns out and pulled them apart to clean them before putting them back together in an attempt to keep herself awake, but now that they were shining bright and tucked away, her lids were drooping again.

"Just go to sleep. It'll still be a few hours until we get there, Lieutentant."

She shook herself and spoke quietly, so as not to wake Havoc. "I've survived on less sleep than this. It's alright, Colonel."

"Of course you have. We all had to at some point in Ishbal. But now we're out of the war, and there's no reason for you to stay awake. Get some sleep before we have to get up and look for Flame."

Tired eyes met his _slightly_ more alert eyes, and her brow furrowed a little. "You should get some sleep yourself, sir."

He looked at her in amusement. "I will, but I can't sleep with you sitting there, trying to keep yourself awake. The attendant will wake us when we need to get off."

"I know, sir."

A murmur from the occupant of the seat opposite them brought them back to silence. After a few moments, Mustang was pleased to note Hawkeye finally shuffling down into her seat and resting her head against the wall. He heard her give a soft sigh, and soon enough he felt his own eyelids drooping. His head thumped onto the window and he allowed himself to be convinced that his body was saying it was time to sleep.

* * *

Havoc felt a hand on his shoulder, shaking him awake. A voice somewhere above him was also telling him the same message that the hand did, and he finally opened his eyes. "This _was_ the compartment that asked for the wake-up call, wasn't it?"

"Yes, thank you," Havoc said, waving the man away with a yawn. He looked over to the other seat. Apparently, the attendant had only seen fit to wake him up. Mustang and Hawkeye were shoulder to shoulder, heads leant in against each other. He poked his superior officers' legs with the toe of his boot. "Alright, break it up already."

When that failed to rouse them, he stood up and gave them a shove each. Their eyelids opened blearily at first, but then they stretched and seemed to wake.

"Our stop coming up next?" Mustang asked through a yawn. Havoc had to ask him to repeat it before he understood.

"Yeah. Time to grab your bags and get off."

They all pulled their luggage off the overhead compartment, and wandered out to the end of the carriage. Finally, the train pulled up at a station and the doors opened. They walked onto the platform – the only people there – and stopped.

"Now where?" Havoc asked as the train pulled away from the station, leaving them completely isolated.

"It's too far to walk now," Mustang muttered.

"A hotel, then?" Hawkeye suggested.

"Would anyone be awake to give us our rooms?" Havoc asked. The three of them looked at each other. "I believe there's a hole in the big 'dash after Flame in the middle of the night' plan. We might have to be homeless for the night."

There was only a moment's hesitation before Mustang spun around and began to walk off the train platform.

"Colonel, where are you going?"

Mustang called back to them grouchily, without slowing his stride. "If no-one's awake, we'll wake someone up and apologise for the inconvenience. I have some money on me – we can apologise fluently enough with that." It appeared that few hours of sleep he had gained on the train had just been enough to give him a taste for more. His lieutenants followed after him at a steady pace.


	6. Accommodation, Food and Anything Else T

**Disclaimer:** I do not own any of the main characters in this story. For the main part, they belong to Arakawa Hiromu, but the Roy look-a-like belongs to the many fanfic writers out there who blatantly OOC him.

**Spoilers:** For Chapter 58

**A/N:** In this time period, houses were given names rather than addresses. In the last chapter I made the error of referring to a house by name of the owner rather than the house's name. I have edited mention of the Garred's house, and replaced it with the house name: Ternville Lodge. Further references to houses will be by their names.

**

* * *

****Chapter six: Accommodation, food, and anything else that comes**

The chilly air stabbed through the civilian clothing easily, and Havoc could see his breath coming out in small white puffs as he walked along behind his commanding officer. The military trio wandered into town somewhat warmed from the walk, and awake enough to find a place to sleep before collapsing instead of just falling asleep where they stood on the street.

A few voices echoed through the night, and Havoc looked up to see a light still on in one building up ahead. _Please let it be a tavern or hotel of some sort,_ he thought.

"Out, you mangy mongrels," a voice called through the laughter. The tone didn't sound harsh enough to be anything but a friendly jibe, but Havoc was still slightly wary. "That's enough for you lot tonight. Go home and get some sleep it off before you come back and drink all of my wine again."

The guffaws trailed off as the suddenly evicted men wandered their own way into the darkness, but Havoc and his superiors increased their pace towards the original voice. A landlord or a bartender? Havoc wouldn't mind either at the moment.

"Any chance of some rooms for the night?" Mustang called out as they neared the man.

Havoc could see the fellow squinting at them, trying to see them better. "I might have. It all depends on who's asking." They were finally close enough to the light that the man had a clear view of each of them, and he did look from face to face a few times, trying to get a measure of them. They had stood in silence for a few seconds – if Mustang or Hawkeye weren't about to talk, Havoc was ready to, just so he could get inside – when the other man's eyes opened wide and he burst out with a loud "oh! You're the Mustang boy, aren't you? And Miss Hawkeye! I almost didn't recognise you; you've both grown up so much."

A blanket of confusion had just been pulled over Havoc. Hawkeye and Mustang grew up in the same town? He knew that they had known each other in Ishbal, but he didn't realise that they went back further than that.

"Come in! Come in! What are you doing out this late? I didn't know you were back in town. If you just arrived, then I'd say you timed your train rather poorly." He ushered them into the building. The inside looked as though it were an imitation of a Western saloon, and Havoc found himself dropping his suitcase onto a table and taking the seat by it as the barkeep locked the doors from the inside. It felt so good to be sitting on something other than that terribly small train seat. He stretched his legs out in front of himself.

"We're looking for someone who came this way earlier today," Mustang said. "He looks just like me, and goes by my name, but he seems a little queer in the head. For now we just need some rooms to sleep in, though. We can look for him in the morning."

Despite the odd look the barkeep was giving Mustang, he knew business when he heard it. "Right-o. I'll get you your rooms." He went behind the bar and rummaged around below the counter. "Who's your friend?"

"Oh. This is Jean Havoc. Havoc, this is Oswald Pater."

Havoc and Oswald nodded briefly at one another before Oswald presented them with some keys. "Your rooms: Mustang, number four; Miss Hawkeye, number five; Mister Havoc, number six. Have a good sleep, and I'll see you in the morning. You're all lucky that Brennan, Kyle and Dane took so long to get themselves out of here, or I'd have locked up and been in bed an hour ago."

They thanked him and retired to their rooms. Havoc didn't know about Mustang and Hawkeye, but he was pretty much asleep by the time that he hit the bed. Two late nights in a row were not good for him.

* * *

Hawkeye's round eyes flew open. She took a second to take in her surroundings before she remembered the 'mission' they had begun in the night. Although she was looking forward to removing Flame from the area, lowering his chances of ruining the Colonel's name where it mattered, she was also wary at how they should approach the conundrum. As long as they managed to have Flame come with them willingly, there was bound to be a whole lot less chatter in the town. 

She pulled herself out of the bed and quickly washed and dressed before descending to the inn's common room. Her main complaint against civilian clothing was that it was harder to conceal a gun on her person, but had she still managed to do so – she bought all of her clothing with her weapons in mind.

"Morning, Miss Hawkeye," Oswald said as she approached. He was still fussing around behind the bar, straightening newly washed glasses "Early riser?"

She nodded. "It's become a habit," she admitted while taking a seat at a table.

"A quick breakfast before you go looking for that fellow?"

Oh yes, they had spoken to Oswald about Flame briefly, hadn't they? "Yes, and some tea. Would you be able to have some food ready for Mustang and Havoc when they come down, too? We need to start looking early, before Flame has gone too far, if we can help it."

"Do you know when they'll be down?"

"Within a half hour."

He paused, and then nodded. It was true: their training and usual early waking habits – provided that they usually woke in time to make the quick dash to work at the very least – should kick in soon and rouse them. If it didn't, Hawkeye would be up there to get them out of bed herself.

By the time that Oswald had brought her a plate of toast and omelette, and her cup of tea, Mustang had tromped downstairs loudly. He looked around and, seeing her, joined her table, his eyes on her food. She pulled the plate closer to herself and stuck a fork of omelette into her mouth just to see him wince.

"Yours will come in a minute, sir," she told him, shooing away the hand that had just reached for one of her slices of toast. He sighed resignedly, and looked over to the adjoining room Oswald had just ducked into – the kitchen. "Did it sound as though Havoc was awake before you came down?" she asked him.

"Might have been. There was some sort of ruckus coming from his room – he probably realised a little too late that the basins here don't have hot water. I managed to remember in time."

"Yes, I can smell that you did," she interjected. She was stepping out of place, but being back in her hometown seemed to do that for her. They didn't need to advertise that they were in the military, so she didn't completely curb her tongue. "At least you barely have a five o'clock shadow."

Mustang rubbed a hand over his cheek irritably. He didn't even have a decent amount of stubble, and he hadn't shaved since the morning before. His facial hair had never been fast to grow, and it was a sensitive spot for him. Depending who the jibe came from, and some really lousy timing, sometimes it might just have the same effect on him as short jokes had on Fullmetal. At least it all grew in evenly when it _did_ grow, though.

He sat back contentedly when Oswald placed a warm plate in front of him, and dug in to his food. When he had gulped down a mouthful or two, he indicated around the common room with his fork. "I take it that I'm the one paying for all of this? Accommodation, food, and anything else that comes?"

"You're the one with the money, sir. I don't see how Havoc or I could pay for it."

"Yes, of course." He bit into his toast. "When we get back to Central I'll see if there's anyway we can get the military to reimburse me."

She shook her head. "We're not on a military mission. I had to pull a few strings just to get permission to have these days off – I doubt they'll pay for us too."

A few more patrons entered the inn, chatting with Oswald animatedly first of all before seating themselves and calling for various foods and drinks. Hawkeye watched them indifferently as she finished off her omelette.

"Do you think many people will recognise us?" Mustang asked her as he cleaned his own plate.

"There are bound to be some, sir, but I don't think it will matter. As long as Flame doesn't leave the town before we find him, it should be fine." She paused as he nodded. "If you'll forgive me for asking, why are you worried about it?"

He fidgeted with the knife and fork neatly placed on his plate. "Some people might make assumptions about our return, and I don't think we should allow them that."

"Of course not, sir."

Havoc finally emerged from the staircase and joined his superior officers. Hawkeye couldn't help but notice the small nicks and cuts on his neck. He didn't have the handy trait of being able to look clean shaven with a day's worth of regrowth as Mustang did.

"Food?" he said hopefully, and soon enough Oswald came over with Havoc's plate. The man wolfed down his food as Hawkeye and Mustang waited patiently, their own plates having been removed.

Having finished in record timing, Havoc stretched back into his seat comfortably with a moan of contentment.

"Finished?" Mustang asked shortly.

Havoc nodded with a grin and patted his belly.

"Let's go and find us a Flaming Imbecile, then."

* * *

In his sleep, Flame groaned. This was one of the least comfortable beds he had ever slept in. Worse even than the time he had begrudgingly consented to stay the night at Jane's house - or was it Cynthia's? - and had woken with one arm numb and the other cold and completely stiff because she had all but insisted he sleep with his arms around her. 

What was it that was wrong with this bed, and whose was it? After consoling himself to the idea that he could go back to sleep once he found out, Flame opened his eyes.

Oh. That was why it wasn't comfortable. It was a hay loft. Why was he in a hay loft? Flame thought back to the night before: coming to see the family at Ternville Lodge and being welcomed in – that was no reason to make him sleep in a barn – eating dinner with the family – that couldn't be it. Or was it? Was it because Mr. Garred, the owner of the house, had caught him giving _those_ looks to his eldest daughter? Flame shrugged. That might have been part of the reason. The rest was the man's simple prudish nature.

Despite the occurrences of the night, Flame wouldn't let those set him back. He would go into the house and ask if he could breakfast with them, and if he was turned away, he could simply go back to the other house. What was it called again? Flame pulled out the address from his pocket. Innisbury. When he'd had something to eat, then he'd go there.

He climbed out of the loft and quickly brushed off all of the hay still clinging to his clothing and hair before approaching the house. He didn't want to look like some maniac.

* * *

"I take it that we're not just wandering aimlessly about the town then, Colonel?" Havoc asked, hand unconsciously resting on the holster under the jacket of his suit. 

"Of course not, Havoc. You don't think that I would come here, with no further idea of Flame's location than the town itself?"

"Of course not, sir. That would be unmilitaristic."

"That's not a word, Havoc," Hawkeye interjected.

"No, Lieutenant, but you know what I'm talking about, don't you? It wouldn't be like a soldier. Not one who does his job properly, in any case." He received no answer, and so just kept following Mustang and Hawkeye as they led their way out of town. They both seemed to know precisely where they were headed, and poor Havoc felt left out. "Where are we going?"

The pace never flagged, and soon Havoc found that the buildings were growing fewer and further between. He pulled his suit-jacket around him, to stop it flapping out with every step he took, and crammed his hands into the pockets.

"Innisbury," Mustang finally answered. It sounded to Havoc like another town, and he groaned. Mustang looked back at him for a moment before facing back to the direction he was walking in. "It's just a little bit around the next corner," he told his child-like Second Lieutenant.

Havoc breathed a sigh of relief. They hadn't been walking for long – it was only that a trip with an unknown distance ahead seemed a whole lot more impossible than one with a particular destination.

Hawkeye's voice shattered his moment of respite. "That is if he's still there."

They finally rounded the promised corner, and after passing the first house, they kept walking towards the next one, which Havoc could see at a distance. At first he thought it was just that distance between them and the house fooling his eyes, but when they approached it, he could see the dilapidation of the house.

It was old, and run down. The window on one side was smashed, and it looked as though it could do with a spring cleaning or seven. There was an old, worn chair on one end of the porch, and on the other end there were holes in the floor-boards that a foot could easily fall through if one didn't look where they were walking. Mustang and Hawkeye seemed to ignore these, merely walking up to the door.

Mustang stepped forwards and twisted the doorhandle. "Locked," he said simply. He pulled a stick of chalk from his back pocket, and while Havoc was wondering how long it'd been there for, he asked a simple "mind if I unlock it?" from Hawkeye. When she gave him the go ahead, he drew a small transmutation circle on the door.

After the usual short blue glow, he twisted the handle once again, and opened the door, stepping in cautiously. Hawkeye and Havoc followed, one after the other. Havoc noticed Mustang slipping his spark-cloth gloves on, and Hawkeye had pulled out a gun. So as not to be the odd one out, Havoc finally took his own gun from its holster.

"You two check this floor, and I'll check the second floor," Mustang said before striding away.

Havoc looked over at Hawkeye. She appeared just as resolved as usual, and her calm exterior helped Havoc to add to his own. Flame had no reason to attack them – only if he was caught by surprise. The weapons were just a precaution. And the house was empty; there wouldn't be anyone in here who would try to attack them. He edged after Hawkeye. She seemed to know where they were going.


	7. Blasted Kneecaps, Invented Cheese and An

**Disclaimer:** I do not own any of the main characters in this story. For the main part, they belong to Arakawa Hiromu, but the Roy look-alike belongs to the many fanfic writers out there who blatantly OOC him. Kindest regards to you all, and thank you for supplying me with a character

**Notes:** Sorry it's taken me so long. A mix of heaps of work and not being able to concentrate when I tried to write really set it back. I'll try to get the next update in less than a month . . .

**Spoilers:** For Chapter 58

**

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****Chapter seven: Blasted kneecaps, invented cheese and annoying brothers**

Flame wandered out of Ternville with a content stomach. He strolled along the road towards the house he was looking for. The piece of paper with the name of the house – he had scribbled it down on the train-ride here, while he still remembered – was scrunched up in his pocket, a new wrinkle for each time he sat down or shifted his position. It was still legible, though. It didn't matter to him as long as he could read it.

He stopped, looking at the house before him. It was a dump. He crept up the porch, and saw the holes in the flooring. It was a good thing he hadn't wandered over to that side of the porch the night before. The door was open, and Flame stepped in curiously. "Hello?"

There was a clattering of footsteps, and to his surprise, Hawkeye and Havoc emerged from a side room, guns drawn. After a moment, they lowered their weapons and strode towards him.

"What are you two doing here?" Flame asked. Were they really that fast to pick up on things in this world?

"Looking for you," Hawkeye replied brusquely.

A grin grew on Flame's face. "Couldn't bear to be without me, so you followed me, eh Riza?"

Before Hawkeye did anything – was she going to do anything? – Flame heard some boots clomping on the floor above them, and Mustang appeared at the top of the staircase. "There you are."

Flame frowned. "How the heck did you manage to follow me all the way out to here? I swear, it's the middle of nowhere." He briefly noticed Hawkeye stiffen, and Mustang finally stopped in front of him. Havoc, however, gave a brief nod. Finally, someone on his side for once!

"Common sense, Flame," Mustang said shortly. "Please acquire some within the next few days if you plan on staying here much longer."

Hah – Mustang thought he knew everything. Had he even paused to think on why Flame had come to this village? "Did you take any time to wonder why I came here, Mustang? It says it right there in that letter of yours." Mustang didn't speak, but set his mouth in a line, and so Flame took the opportunity. "I came to see if your sweetheart's father would – are you alright?" Mustang appeared to be having a coughing fit, but he put up a hand, indicating for Flame to go on. "If he would help me find a way back home. The letter seemed to say he was a proficient in alchemy."

Mustang had ceased coughing by now, and he straightened, looking at Flame with one eyebrow raised. "It's a bit late for that now – my _Teacher_ has been dead these past nine years."

It was at this point that Flame noticed the distinct chirping of a cricket outside the house. He stood there for a moment, thinking it over in his mind. Yes. Yes, the man being Mustang's teacher would be reason enough for him to know the family, especially as most students lived with their teacher. That might be adequate reason for the daughter to send a letter to him. Oh. The man was dead. Well, he couldn't help Flame now, could he?

"I suppose that I'll be coming back to Central with you?"

"Yes, that was the idea."

"What if I choose to be awkward and run away again?"

"Then we'll pursue, and I'll get Hawkeye to take out one of your kneecaps so that you can't escape again. The more you run away, and the more time we have to spend chasing you, the longer it will take to find a way home for you."

Flame paused. Tough decision. This time, he decided to be co-operative. "Ah. Well, I think I might come with you for now, then. We'll see where it goes from there."

* * *

Havoc was pleased to have returned to the inn they were staying at in time for lunch, although he was apprehensive of when they would be going back to Central. "We have three days off, didn't you say, Lieutenant? And today _is_ the first, right?"

"Even if we return to Central now, we don't have to be back at work for another few days," she answered, looking him in the eye to make sure he was listening.

A dreamy smile crept onto his face. There were so many beautiful women around here. They had all appeared upon their return, when decent people were beginning to actually wake up. Maybe there was some sort of chance that he might just be able to find one who thought he was the best thing since cheese was invented.

"Cheese wasn't invented, Havoc. Created, maybe; discovered, most likely; but _not_ invented."

He quickly snapped out of his reverie, realising that he had been speaking out loud. Hawkeye was looking at him with a dubious expression on her face, as though she wasn't sure whether to send him to the hospital for a check-up, or just tell him to shut-up.

"And I doubt you'd find a single girl interested in you in this crowd, anyway–"

"I resent that!" Havoc exclaimed, his mouth falling open. So now it had come to Hawkeye taking jabs at him too? If this continued, he might have the entire office ganging up on him after failed dates! Not that they were that common . . . but, it was the principal of things!

She simply raised an eyebrow at him. "Maybe if you had spent less time analysing said crowd's 'assets'," she began, gesturing to what was indeed an entire room full of women, "you might have noticed that their attention has not been on you at any point today."

Havoc peered warily at the faces of the girls who had packed the tavern common-room. Yes, it was true; each of them seemed to be concentrating on a table on the far side of the room. If he moved around a little, he could see that the people at that table were one suave other-worlder, and a weary Colonel.

Mustang had refused to leave Flame alone, in case he tried to escape again, but with the man currently being the centre of attention, it was hard for him to remove himself as well as his look-alike from the bustle. Noticing Havoc's head bobbing about, though, he made eye-contact, in a "get over here now or I'll burn this whole place down" sort of way. He needed some sort of intelligent company, and this gaggle of women might have been incredibly attractive, but since their attention was not in fact on him, but rather on the enigma to his left, he could forgo their aimless chatter.

As Hawkeye didn't have the same angle as Havoc, and wouldn't have seen the expression of near-desperation, he relayed the message and they began to thread their way towards the two men. It was with a hint of amusement that Havoc noticed the evil glares Hawkeye was receiving as she passed, becoming closer to the object of attention.

"_Never_ let me be alone with Flame again," Mustang growled when they drew close.

"You're not exactly alone with him, chief," Havoc pointed out, only to receive a frosty glare in return.

"Flame has too much . . ." Mustang struggled for the word, attempting to ignore the man behind him as he loudly took down a sixth phone-number. "Too much personality," he finally burst out with, "for any of us to handle on our own. From now on, at all times there is to be no less than two people watching him. I don't care how, just as long as he is watched and those with him don't lose all hope of sanity."

Havoc gave a quick snort at the determination in Mustang's eyes as he jabbed a finger into his palm to emphasise his point.

"Sir, with all due respect, the wisest move would be to return to Central on the next train," Hawkeye ventured. "There, Havoc can take him back to his apartment, and keep him inside. It will be a lot less of a fuss than this is."

"Oh, no! I am _not_ having him in my apartment again!"

Mustang looked at him with exasperation. "Then who's going to take care of him? We can't foist _that_ onto anyone outside of our division."

"And it wouldn't be fair to just hand him over to someone who doesn't have any say at all in it," Havoc mused. He silently caught Mustang's eye, and twitched his head towards Hawkeye.

"I saw that, Havoc, and that man is not coming anywhere near my apartment," Hawkeye said vehemently.

Mustang's eyes had widened at the suggestion, and as Hawkeye's mouth snapped shut, he gestured toward the mass of oestrogen surrounding them. "We're standing in the middle of this - a testament to his character - and you're suggesting he stays with a woman? Have some common sense, Havoc."

"Alright, alright. I get the message." This time it was Hawkeye's eye he caught. She hesitated for only a second before nodding. Havoc grinned. "So nice of you to volunteer, Colonel Mustang. I believe your new boarder awaits you."

"You what?"

"No one else left for the job, sir," Hawkeye said with a grim smile.

"But I'm the Colo–"

"What a generous offer that was," Havoc said once more before strolling upstairs to make sure that everything he had packed was in the bag he had brought with him. He left the First Lieutenant and the Colonel behind to argue it out with each other. If they continued to play with his suggestion that it was unfair to give Flame to any absent office members, then he was not going to stick around to give them another option.

* * *

It hadn't taken them long to gather their belongings – especially as Oswald had told them the next train should come in fifteen minutes, and the next after that wouldn't be for another six hours. So now they sat in a carriage, hearts finally having returned to their original pace after the mad dash.

Hawkeye sat as still as she could, crowded in the full compartment as she was. There had been none empty, and the best they could find was one with only two other occupants. Mustang had suggested that they split into pairs, but Havoc vehemently declined, reminding Mustang of his previous complaint of being left alone with Flame. Hawkeye had merely smiled, knowing that the Colonel simply wanted to be rid of the mirror-image before he was forced to house the man. Flame had suggested that he and Hawkeye would go to another cabin and Mustang and Havoc could stay, but that had been rebuffed almost as quickly as he had recommended it to begin with, to her relief.

So now she sat, one leg crossed neatly over the other in an attempt to take up less space. Each seat, designed to hold two adults and perhaps a child, had three occupants. Havoc was lucky that he was the one chosen to sit next to the two youths already in the compartment; he seemed to have enough room to spread out, whereas Flame and Mustang were knee to knee.

"So what time are we getting home, Mustang?"

"You asked that half an hour ago. We're _still_ getting home just after three."

"Well, the train could have slowed down or sped up since then. You can't blame me for asking again. It isn't like I'm asking every ten minutes or–"

"Alright, I get it already." Mustang's eyes had narrowed to slits. Hawkeye watched on in amusement as Mustang flicked open his State Alchemist watch in annoyance, to look at the time. "We have four and a half more hours, so you may as well sit back and relax, if you can. We're not getting home any time soon."

Flame sighed and leant against the small window sill, watching Amestris pass by. The expression on his face could not have been more bored had he tried to make it so. Hawkeye took this as a cue to get her book out of her suitcase. Seven pages later, Flame appeared to have tired of even this activity, and began complaining noisily, again.

"Look," Mustang finally growled, "if I take you to the toilet, then get you some food, will you _please_ be quiet?"

There was a slight pause (in which Hawkeye turned the page warily, watching the conversation out of the corner of her eye), and Flame acquiesced, rising magnanimously from his seat. Mustang followed him out of the compartment, and Hawkeye heard the two boys breathe sighs of relief.

"And I thought _my_ brother was annoying," one of them said, rolling his eyes dramatically. Havoc laughed, and Hawkeye smiled into her book, wriggling into a more comfortable position while she had the chance. The other boy snorted and began extolling the misfortunes of his sister. In the dramatic lull, Havoc put his feet up on the empty seat opposite him, but Hawkeye flickered an eyebrow in his direction, and the dirty boots were placed back on the floor. After hesitating a second, he leant forwards and wiped off the mud that had fallen onto the seat.

The boys were chatting quietly, and she had turned a few more pages by the time that the door opened again, and Mustang stepped in alone. She closed the book with a snap and began to stand up when he motioned her back down.

"I've let him go get the food by himself," Mustang explained. "There isn't anywhere he can go other than on the train, and there are no stops until Carrick, which is still an hour away. If he isn't back in twenty minutes I'll go look for him, but otherwise we can let him explore for a while."

She stood, unsure for a moment.

"If he tries to run, you and Havoc have your guns," he muttered as he passed her, so that the younger boys wouldn't be alarmed.

Hawkeye nodded and opened up her book again as Mustang sat by her. His hands wriggled around in his pockets as if to find something, but ended up returning empty to his knees, and he leant back as though to catch up on some rest. Havoc was whistling and looking out the window. All in all, it seemed that the train ride had the potential to be relatively calm. That was provided that Flame didn't try to escape somehow.


	8. Outrage, Car Rides and Bedtime

**Disclaimer:** I do not own any of the main characters in this story. For the main part, they belong to Arakawa Hiromu, but the Roy look-alike belongs to the many fanfic writers out there who blatantly OOC him. Kindest regards to you all, and thank you for supplying me with a character

**

* * *

****Chapter eight: Outrage, car rides and bedtime**

Mustang was raging. He had been left in the middle of a crowded dining carriage – all of the passengers were taking advantage of being on one of the few trains that had this added bonus. Now where was he? Storming up the train, to find where the bane of his existence had scurried off to. He was in the extreme hope that Flame might have headed back to their compartment, but Mustang had an inkling that that might have been too much to ask. Becoming acquainted with the man's further frivolities, Mustang almost expected to find the other man in another compartment, being fawned over by the previous occupants – all female, of course.

It had been almost a quarter of an hour of standing in that line, waiting, until Mustang had realised he was alone. The noise had been enough that he hadn't been able to hear Flame's complaints anymore, and it had been a blissful relief, but after some time he had turned around, and none of the people behind him appeared to have so much as the same nose as him, let alone his whole visage.

So now, here he was, marching up through the train, glancing quickly into each compartment as he passed.

When he finally came to theirs, he paused, wishing that he had had the presence of mind to take his gloves out of his jacket pocket before he had oh-so-good-naturedly bestowed said item of clothing upon the cold Spark. Warily, he opened the door.

His first reaction was somewhat ambivalent – Flame's presence was a good sign, but the seat he had taken next to Hawkeye looked too close for comfort's sake. Why would that troublemaker have run off just to come back to where they would be waiting for him? It was too easy.

Mustang's ambivalence was resolved simultaneously with Hawkeye herself seeming to have reached the same conclusion about her and Flame's proximity. Flame's hand slid up from his own leg, onto her thigh, and a choking sound escaped her throat. To save the lady the hassle, Mustang thought that this should be the time that he stepped in.

In short, five minutes later, Flame found himself once again squashed up to the window, this time with the added discomfort of a brutally sprained wrist, and a distinctly reddened cheek, due to the two people on his left. It appeared that all of the muscle on Flame was purely for show. Mustang's relatively undefined arms were more suited to a purpose. He had claimed back his jacket almost immediately, and searched his pockets.

"Where are they, Flame?"

There was a pregnant pause before Hawkeye leant forwards toward the other occupants. "It might be wise if you two go for a walk for a few minutes. We shouldn't be long," she said, her voice brisk and business-like. The two youths looked the black-faced Mustang, and wisely chose this time to grab their possessions and move along.

As the door closed, Havoc and Hawkeye simultaneously reached for their guns.

"Where are what?" Flame's face was a perfect mask of innocence.

"Give me back the gloves now, and we won't have to punish you," Mustang growled threateningly. "If not, I'll have Hawkeye–"

"Spank me? _Please?_"

"–_That's it!_" Mustang lunged forwards, grabbing the other man's arm and twisting both the man and the limb around until Flame was squashed significantly flat onto the glass window. He could hear both of his Lieutenants making a fuss behind him, but they were speaking loud enough that he couldn't distinguish one voice from the other. "Next time you so much as _mention_ Lieutenant Hawkeye, I will have you incarcerated, Flame!"

"And you think I'm crazy! If she doesn't like it, then she can . . . no, wait," Flame seemed to pause to consider his options: an enraged Hawkeye with a gun, an enraged co-worker with a gun, an enraged boss without a gun (instead, with a possible sexual frustration problem, as the man didn't seem to be getting any), or prison for a night or two. "Ok, ok! I'll take prison!"

Mustang frowned. What? That had been quick. "Prison? Why?"

"Umm . . . I've learnt the error of my ways?"

"In half a minute, you've completely turned around. Yes, I'm sure." The sarcasm dripping from his voice was enough to make Flame cringe.

"No more complaints or comments until we get back to Central. I promise," Flame said hurriedly.

Mustang considered the idea. Another four or so hours to go on the train ride, and the man wasn't allowed to make so much as a peep? That made it seem like some sort of alternate reality. He let Flame crawl off the window, and turn around as all three Amestrians watched him, warily. After a moment, they all returned to their seats.

"Not a word, Flame," Mustang muttered quietly. "Not if you want to come off this train whole."

* * *

Those were the most agonising hours that Flame had ever spent. He had intended at some point to play on Mustang's "not a word" command and start whistling, or humming, but a single memory of the outrage he had just caused confined him to singing along in his mind. But home was only so far away, and the train-ride from hell had to end for all of them at some point or another.

"So do you have any food at this house of yours, Mustang?"

There was a short pause in which Mustang appeared to actually be considering his question. Maybe that period of silence had been good for calming the others down, after all.

"There'll be something there," the man said eventually.

The four of them had split up at the train station. Mustang hadn't been particularly eager to get moving, but the other two hadn't seemed to be able to escape Flame soon enough. They had gone their individual ways, and left the identical pair behind. This car ride was only a notch or two less icy than the train ride had been.

Flame shifted in his seat uncomfortably. The silence was becoming heavier, and had developed an aura of the awkward. "You do know that I don't mean to be offensive to you lot, don't you?" he finally burst out. "I'm just being . . . _me_, and I can't help but feel that you're taking it the wrong way."

Mustang's head swivelled towards him slowly, eyes narrowed. He stared at Flame for only a second before turning back to the road.

"What?" Flame asked. Mustang had no excuse for giving him a dirty look just then! He had been apologising, and that was no reason to glare at him as though he just insulted Mustang, his mother, his sister, and his girlfriend – which, Flame had noticed smugly, he seemed somewhat devoid of.

" 'I can't help but feel that you're taking it the wrong way'? Somehow that sentence just doesn't fit in with _you_," Mustang snorted. "Forgive me if I don't really believe you."

A frown creased Flame's brow. "So you're not going to believe anything I say?"

"No, it's just that it seems slightly out of character for you–"

"But what _is_ 'out of character' for me? I don't know how observant you are, but I think that what I do is everything you would if you had the courage to get up and do it yourself."

"Also, if I had a distinct lack of common sense, empathy for others, sense of self-preservation, obedience–"

"Or pretence thereof," Flame interrupted. Mustang raised an eyebrow at him, and Flame explained in the easiest way possible: mockery. " 'Yes, Mr. Fuhrer, I'll serve you as long as I serve in the military'." When the other man didn't answer him, Flame continued. "Look, I may appear to be an idiot to you, but I notice things too. If you weren't so reserved, then half of those girls in the inn would have been all over you, too."

Mustang's fingers were gripping the steering wheel hard enough that they looked white even now, in the gloom of night. "I don't care about those girls – they were just an added annoyance to build up to what makes you you. Unfortunately."

"Good." Flame leant back into his seat. "Then at least you don't envy me that."

There was a short pause in which Mustang processed this claim. "Envy you?" The words crawled out of his mouth.

"Yes, that's what I said."

"What makes you think I envy you?"

"Well, either that or you hate me," Flame reasoned, "and look! Right now you're carrying on something that looks quite like a conversation with me. You're speaking, and you don't seem immediately hostile, only defensive. You don't _hate_ me, it's just that you're . . . hiding something?"

"Why would I be hiding something?"

Flame inched closer. He could see Mustang peering awkwardly back at him out of the corner of his eye. Flame hovered just there, his head less than a foot from Mustang's. The other man's irritation was a definite sign that either he was hiding something, or just that his personal space had been breached.

"I don't know," Flame growled. "What could you be hiding, I wonder?" He waited there, watching for the response to make itself evident in Mustang's face. Finally, when they came to a stretch of straight road, Mustang pushed Flame away and readjusted his posture.

Stroking his chin dramatically, Flame pondered the situation aloud. "Is this hidden _thing_ being hidden just from me? Or is it, perhaps, being hidden from everyone around you? _Or_ do you not even realise it yourself? Maybe it's a secret that you've told to only a select few. Your closest friends. Or friend. Did you even tell them, or did they figure it out themselves?"

Mustang's actions were becoming slightly more erratic as the questions progressed. He went from steering, focussing on the road in front of him, to changing his hands' positions on the wheel every few seconds, to scratching an itch on the back of his head, all the while avidly avoiding looking at Flame. Flame took it as a sure-fire way of telling that he was on the right track.

The car pulled over, and Mustang was out of the vehicle before Flame had so much as unbuckled his seatbelt. "We're here. Out now."

"Alright, alright."

They strolled up to the house – well, Flame strolled; Mustang's gait was more like a hurried march – and went in. It was a completely new building to Flame, and at first glance, nothing like his own home. At further inspection, however, he saw a few items which not only would he have bought himself, but he _had_ bought. He even walked up to a lampshade and looked at the tag just to see whether it was the same as one he had purchased only a week ago. He didn't even stop exploring until Mustang asked him what he was doing.

"I'm figuring out just how similar our taste in furniture is," he replied nonchalantly. "For example, you stole that lamp shade and that picture frame over there from me." He strode into the next room and let out a gasp. "And my whole kitchen!" The entire room looked the same – oven, benches, icebox, and even the arrangement of the plates and cups inside the cupboards!

"I stole nothing," Mustang said, passing by and opening the icebox. "See, I told you there'd be something here."

Flame was horrified to see him take out a huge hunk of cheese and a few carrots. "You're . . . you're . . . eating _that_?"

Wide-eyed, Mustang looked back, gnawing on one carrot already. "Sure, it's half-frozen, but better that than rotting," he reasoned, waving the vegetable around.

"What happened to meat? You know, that thing that comes off animals? Beef, pork, bacon, ham, lamb, mutton, veal, venison–"

"Not everyone has money for that sort of thing, Flame."

He couldn't help but sit in shock. Money? This guy thought that money was a problem? "But what about the grant you get from the military for being an alchemist? I mean, that's enough to buy your own house with."

"A house, yes, but that was after plenty of saving. You do realise it's an _alchemical_ grant. For _alchemy_, right?"

Oh yeah, that had occurred to him from time to time, and he had used his money for his research on occasion, when he could be bothered to do it, but he'd always seemed to have plenty of money when it came to it. Enough for a good house, fancy car, decent food. It hadn't occurred to him that the guys in this world wouldn't have had it. Now he felt a little bit guilty for leading them half-way across the country.

". . . Can I at least have a carrot, then?"

Mustang grinned before tossing him one. "I'll go get the guest room prepared for you."

And so it came about that almost five minutes later, he was shown to his hastily aired room, finally having decided exactly what question he wanted to ask Mustang to set his mind at ease. The one big question that would determine just how at home he could make himself here. The question at which Havoc had failed miserably.

"Do you have any alcohol here? For drinking, not cleaning or first aid."

Mustang paused. "I have some, but nothing that would settle you just before going to bed. Not the sort of thing to drink alone."

A grin spread over Flame's face. "It's alright. I can spend another night or two without. The knowledge that it's there is relaxing enough for me." He smiled happily to himself. Finally, something had gone right in this world. Even if this version of himself was less impulsive, more responsible, and all that jazz, he could still be counted on to supply the only liquid Flame thought worthy of stocking. Besides coffee, that was.

Abruptly, Mustang stood up and stretched. "I'm going to bed now, and you should go to yours, too. You're coming with me to work tomorrow."

"I thought you took a few days off. They can't make you come back in the middle of your 'holiday'," Flame protested.

"True, but I'm going to have a lot of work piling up, and I may as well bring some of it home to get it done, rather than having to spend extra time at the office later."

Flame gaped. His counterpart was a workaholic. Couldn't he go three days without working on . . . work? "Do I have to do anything?"

"Probably not, but I'm not leaving you alone. Not with you running off like that."

Flame winced. "Can't we put that behind us?" The look Mustang gave him was stony enough to send Flame into a fit of giggles – yes, _giggles_.

"It was yesterday, Flame. And I didn't manage to get a decent night's sleep out of that, either."

"You could have just slept in at the inn," he suggested. It was a firm possibility. He would have done it if he was in Mustang's place.

"You obviously don't know the horror that is the body clock. I've been getting up at six-thirty, for six out of seven days for the past ten years. I don't remember the last time my body let me sleep any later than a quarter past seven."

Flame shuddered. That sounded like his idea of hell. "But it's only eight o'clock," he gestured towards the clock on the wall. "What do you get, ten and a half hours of sleep a night?"

"Two extra to make up for last night. A soldier needs his beauty sleep," Mustang grinned.

"But . . ! But . . !" Flame looked about himself to see what he might be able to grasp as a tool for staying up later. Now he felt as though he were ten years old again. The next thing he expected Mustang to do was offer to read him a bedtime story.

"Bedtime. Now."


	9. Broken Eggs, Drizzling Showers, and Awkw

**Disclaimer:** I do not own any of the main characters in this story. For the main part, they belong to Arakawa Hiromu, but the Roy look-alike belongs to the many fanfic writers out there who blatantly OOC him. Kindest regards to you all, and thank you for supplying me with a character

**Note:** There shouldn't be indoor showers in the 1910-20s, but there is one in the manga, so I'm just pretending that there was.

**

* * *

****Chapter nine: Broken eggs, drizzling showers, and awkward silences**

If this wasn't relaxed, Jean Havoc must never have heard of the word. What was he doing? He was revelling in the fact that it he was still in bed at eleven o'clock in the morning, and it wasn't a Sunday. Closing his eyes again, he resolved to _really_ get out of bed this time, and finally hoisted himself up to make some breakfast. The moment his feet hit the floor, he could feel the cool of the timbers seeping into his skin, and grabbed his slippers, throwing them on as he hopped out to the kitchen.

Raiding the pantry brought nothing to his immediate attention, but as soon as Havoc closed the door he realised a distinct craving for scrambled eggs. His stomach didn't bother hiding the fact that that was what it wanted, growling loudly enough that Havoc gave a quick glance in the direction of the window to see if any of his neighbours noticed.

He sighed, and got changed as quickly as he could without looking as though he had just stepped out of a windstorm. He looked around, patting his empty pockets before finding his wallet on his bedside table and his apartment keys in a drawer. A short walk to the market would find him some eggs. He only hoped that they hadn't already been bought by the mothers who arrived there early, after their children had left for school.

When he arrived at a market, a pitiful sight met his eyes – yes, there were vegetables here, and the different cuts of meat over there, down in that direction, but the fact was that the best had already been taken. The leaves hung off the lettuces limply, and the fruit looked just a _tiny_ bit too squashed. It was all still edible, but not the best of the best. He tentatively headed down a path towards the clucking sounds. Some chickens were there to be sold. He looked at a brown one eagerly – if he had a few, they could lay eggs for him so that he didn't have to come to the markets to get his food, but his landlord wouldn't allow animals into the apartment and the apartment block's chicken coop was taken by a territorial neighbour.

Havoc paused and looked around. Confused, he turned to the man selling the chickens. "Could you tell me where the eggs are being sold?"

"Just two or three stalls down," the man said, gesturing to his right. "You'll be lucky if there are many left, though."

Glumly, Havoc plodded down to the other stall.

"Any eggs left?" he asked, as though he couldn't see plainly that there was only two in the corner, and one of which appeared – to his military trained eye – to be broken.

The stallholder looked at him levelly. "Do you _see_ any eggs left?"

Havoc sighed, and started walking home. His stomach grumbled again. If it wasn't for the way that it physically shook his belly, he might have thought it was a yowling cat somewhere nearby, but the feeling was a morose reminder. He didn't want anything else to eat. Just scrambled eggs. Maybe he could head over to Breda's and "borrow" some from him. Except that Breda was at work. Mustang wasn't at work, but he had Flame over at his house, and Havoc didn't want another encounter with him if he could help it. Hawkeye wasn't at work either.

Considering the possibility that she might be out, Havoc decided to take the risk. If she had eggs somewhere, he would find them and eat them. Otherwise he would have to starve this morning and wait until his neighbour wasn't looking to filch some from the chicken coop.

Ten minutes later, starting up a sweat from the beginning of the midday sun, Havoc arrived outside Hawkeye's apartment block. He stepped in the front door and looked around. A woman was just coming out of one apartment, closing the door behind her. He shuffled over to her.

"Excuse me, Miss, but would you know if Miss Hawkeye is in right now?" He stuffed his hands into his pockets.

She was kind of attractive and he considered asking her out, but she raised a hand to lazily scratch her cheek and the glint of gold caught his eye for a brief moment. "The blonde woman on the second floor?" she finally asked, her voice as slow and lazy as the hand she had raised. Havoc nodded in assent. "I think she jogs in the mornings. If she isn't back yet, she – oh, hello, Miss Hawkeye."

Havoc turned around to see a sweaty, red-faced Hawkeye. She looked flustered, and had Black Hayate standing at her feet, panting happily. The dog took the moment that she was standing still to sit down and rest.

"Hawkeye!"

"You needed to see me, I assume?" she asked, ignoring the other woman.

Havoc tried to smile as charmingly as possible. "I need to ask a favour," he said.

She gave him a look and headed to the stairwell, allowing the other woman to pass by and go out the door. Havoc followed Hawkeye up the stairs, explaining his dilemma.

"No eggs, you see. I went to the market place to see if they had any, but all that was there didn't appear to be fit for consumption."

He could see the frown on her face as she rounded the corner and set up the next staircase. "I think I might have some. What do you need them for?"

"Breakfast," he grinned.

"Good."

"Good?"

"You can make your breakfast here. And, coincidentally, my lunch at the same time," she explained to him, pulling a key out of her pocket and unlocking her door. She allowed Havoc to walk in first, and shut the door after Hayate, who scampered off eagerly to his water-bowl.

Havoc wandered off to the kitchen, Hawkeye following behind. "What do you want to eat, then?" he asked, invading her food-supplies.

"Whatever you're having will do. Eggs are about eye-height in the pantry." When he looked for a few minutes, and couldn't find them, she glanced over his shoulder. "About _my_ eye-height, not yours. Down a shelf."

Gleefully pulling the long-awaited for ingredients from the shelves, he put them on the kitchen counter. "Are you in for a treat, or what?" Havoc winked at her, receiving only a raised eyebrow in response. He frowned at the frosty reaction. "Did something happen on your jog?" His mind had wanted to add 'or are you just being moody', but a little voice in his head informed him that that wouldn't be a good idea.

Hawkeye rolled her eyes. "Hayate managed to give me the slip for a while. Today was less of a jog and more of a sprint – dogs can run surprisingly fast when they get excited, and they can run under bushes, which gives an unfair advantage." She sighed and shook her head, walking out to the next room. "There's a saucepan in the cupboard on the far left. I'm going to have a shower before I get sweat all over my chairs."

Havoc hummed cheerfully as she sauntered off, finding a bowl to break the eggs into. Finally, something to eat!

* * *

Standing under the drizzle of her shower, Hawkeye came to the conclusion that she didn't like days off. Sure, they gave her a break from having to work at the office, but being at home only reminded her how much she had to do here: rearranging the furniture so that it looked as though it all fit in, buying more groceries, fixing the sheet that Hayate tore up last week, walking Hayate (at least she had already done that), feeding Hayate, feeding herself (and Havoc was taking care of that for this afternoon), doing something about those ants that kept getting into the pantry, washing her clothes. Cleaning the house would have to come later, if she didn't hurry up. Day off. Ha! 

Eventually, she turned off the water and stepped out, grabbing a towel before she dripped water all over the place.

* * *

The eggs were warm, and sitting quite happily on two plates that Havoc had fished out of another cupboard. He dug some cutlery out of a drawer and paused when there was a knock at the door. He glanced in the direction that Hawkeye had wandered off in a few minutes before. Havoc had heard the water turn off in bathroom, but he couldn't hear her coming to answer the door. Another knock sounded, and Havoc put a forkful of eggs into his mouth before going to see who was there. 

He opened the door to see Mustang. Or Flame. There was a short silence in which both looked at the other oddly, then . . .

"Which one are you?"

"What are _you_ doing here?"

There was another awkward pause before Havoc saw Mustang/Flame's eyes dart to something behind him, and widen with shock. Havoc turned around to see Hawkeye coming towards them, towelling her hair.

"Alright, I think I'm done here," said Mustang/Flame imperiously before turning about and walking in the direction of the stairs.

Havoc frowned and poked his head out of the door to watch the man walk away. In confusion, he turned back to Hawkeye, who looked just as bemused as he did.

"What was that about?" she asked.

With a roll of the eyes, Havoc shrugged. "I'll be darned if I know. The eggs are ready, though."

"Mmkay."

* * *

Mustang glowered at the man in front of him. "Where the heck have you been? I almost expected you to have taken another train–" 

"Shush up, Mustang. There's no time for that," Flame waved at him, eyes wide with astonishment. The mirror-image had disappeared when Mustang had dragged him into work to pick up some papers. There was no chance he was leaving him at home by himself, and just what he thought would happen if he was left alone had happened when he didn't give him a chance at it. Flame opened his mouth to speak again, but Mustang steamed right over his words.

"Excuse me? You've just been gallivanting off, and you're expecting me to just shut up and listen to all of your adventures of the day?"

"_Will you be quiet and listen?_"

The shock of Flame's temper put Mustang back. He set his jaw stubbornly and raised an eyebrow, waiting for the explanation. If this wasn't good enough, he would go and get someone else to mind Flame. He was sick of him again already.

Flame breathed out a loud sigh and looked about them. They may have been alone in Mustang's house, but the windows were open, and he was looking suspiciously at the cat balancing on the fence outside. Finally content that no one else was listening, he looked Mustang in the eyes again and started speaking in low tones. From what Mustang could gather, it sounded like "I when talk eyes part–". He stopped Flame there.

"I can't hear a thing you're saying, so what makes you think anyone else can?"

With a glare, Flame started again. "I went to Hawkeye's apartment, and Havoc was there."

Mustang looked at him in confusion. "Firstly, why did you go to her apartment when you were told not to; secondly, how did you get her address; and thirdly, why does it matter that Havoc was there?"

"Well, I was bored, and I thought that the danger of being shot might be worth it if–"

Face reddening with anger, he butted in. "Ok, so how did you get the address?"

"I got it from the guys in the Communications section at HQ. They looked pretty confused when I asked for it, so I figure you already got it at some stage, you sly dog." He winked at Mustang. The stony look on Mustang's face was no longer just because Flame had broken his trust. "And what do you mean 'why does it matter if Havoc was there?'? If you have her address, you must already know why it matters."

Leaning forwards, Mustang lowered his voice into a snarl. "I'm not so innocent to not realise what you're insinuating about Lieutenant Hawkeye and I, but I assure you that the friendship is strictly professional, and I advise that you refrain from mentioning it further."

This time Flame leant forwards, looking Mustang steadily in the eye. "If you understand what I mean by _your_ knowing her address, then you can put the pieces together about Havoc."

Was Flame saying that . . ? This time, Mustang's voice was rising angrily. He avoided snapping his fingers by clenching his fists instead. "Hawkeye knows the problems of workplace relationships, and Havoc can easily find a date from outside the office. I don't see why the two of them would choose to ignore–"

"Hey, I took the liberty of reading through the rules of your military, and nowhere does it say that relationships between officers are prohibited, only _not recommended_." Mustang's eyebrow shot up again. "Ok, so maybe I flipped through the book and it fell to the page. The point is that if they so choose, there is no law saying that they can't be together."

Just to be safe, Mustang pulled his gloves off. Well, ripped them off, really. "How can you be sure that the reason Havoc was there wasn't just to talk about work?" he spat.

Flame looked at him dully. "When you can smell lunch cooking from the doorway, and Hawkeye is just coming out of the shower, that is not just them sitting down to talk. Who knows, maybe they didn't go their separate ways last night, after all–"

"_Shut up!_"

A thick silence hung over the two. This was too much to process all in one go. Flame looked at Mustang with reproach, and Mustang glared back. They stared for a moment before Mustang whirled around and began to storm off. Maybe he would work on getting Flame back to his world. The man was only causing trouble.

"You aren't the only one who feels bad about this, you know. I may be a flirt, but my Riza is still the one I love, and your . . . _Hawkeye_ seems exactly the same to me. Her seeing Havoc doesn't seem any more right to me than the fact that you're just moping about it instead of going over and telling her how much you love her and . . ."

The sound of Flame's voice grew fainter and fainter until Mustang slammed the door behind himself and sat down at his desk, brooding. What was he supposed to do about this?

Crap.


	10. Crayons, Mashing Potatoes, and Wary Proc

**Disclaimer:** I do not own any of the main characters in this story. For the main part, they belong to Arakawa Hiromu, but the Roy look-alike belongs to the many fanfic writers out there who blatantly OOC him. Kindest regards to you all, and thank you for supplying me with a character

**

* * *

****Chapter ten: Crayons, mashing potatoes, and wary procedures**

It had been two days – well, one and a half, really – of sulking and muttering, and Flame couldn't stand it anymore. He was almost happy that Mustang had to go to work again today. Except for the fact that he was being dragged along. When he complained about having nothing to do in the office, Mustang sarcastically asked him if he wanted some crayons and a colouring book. This mood didn't suit Mustang, and Flame wasn't enjoying it.

Now, they walked through the corridors of Headquarters, Mustang in uniform, and Flame in mufti. He wondered how Mustang would receive seeing the Lieutenants after thinking about the issue night and day – he could still hear the other man muttering at night, when he walked past to go to his own room. Great habits Mustang was starting. Flame wondered if the other man was much of a brooder before he had come along and dropped this bombshell on him.

They stepped into the office. Hawkeye was already there. No sign of Havoc. Flame almost sighed with relief. He didn't think he'd be able to stand the tension if Mustang had been made to deal with them both this early in the day.

"Good morning, Colonel," Hawkeye said, looking up from her work briefly.

Flame thought he heard Mustang mutter something.

"Your work is on your desk," she told him before pausing for a glance at Flame. "It might be best if Flame doesn't touch anything, or some things might get misplaced."

Surprised, Flame looked at her as reproachfully as he could manage. "Do you think I'm a thief, Lieutenant?"

She looked at him with a hint of disregard, the lofty expression on her face almost making Flame lament the fact that she and Havoc appeared to be involved. "I wouldn't accuse you of that, knowing you for only a few days. Not a thief, just careless." With a flourish of her hand, she returned to her own paper. Something about the hard-to-get act just drew him. He had taken girlfriends from Havoc before . . . it might just be possible that he could do it again with her.

Mustang had said nothing during their exchange, only moved to his desk and got to work immediately, his face all clouded over. Flame quickly remembered that Mustang himself seemed to have an attachment to the woman, and turned his thoughts to more honourable aims. Maybe he could steal her from Havoc, and then convince her he was actually Mustang, and whatever there was between the two could thrive. He felt proud of himself for even thinking of helping the other man, and went to lean against the wall.

What he was supposed to do in the next few hours, though? He had just begun to pick at his nails when Havoc entered the room.

"Oh, you're here Colonel." Was that a hint of disappointment in Havoc's voice, or was Flame just imagining? He had to admit, he was looking very hard, but it might have been there. Maybe. "Didn't expect you to already be here."

Mustang made no answer, but just looked up and glared at the other man.

Flame looked up too, and blinked when he realised that Hawkeye was no longer in the room. "Where did Hawkeye go?" Her exit had been completely silent. How did she manage that?

"Hawkeye?" Havoc asked. "She was just in the break room a minute ago. Making some coffee, I think."

Coffee, eh? "Oh, ok." Flame eyed the mug that Havoc was holding. "What do you have?"

"Huh? Oh, coffee. Wakes me up. Don't you have something you need to be doing, Flame?"

What was this, now? Havoc seemed to be trying to change the topic. Flame didn't give him the respect of answering the question, but dragged out a spare chair and sat on it, watching the Lieutenant as he started on his paperwork. The other man took a sip out of his mug and scribbled something absently in the border of the page he was looking at.

The doors of the office opened, and Hawkeye stepped inside, two mugs balancing in her hand. She walked over and put one on the Colonel's desk before returning to her own. Flame was confused for a second, but decided that she was trying not to let him realise about her and Havoc. As though his seeing them at her apartment wasn't a big enough hint. He was pleased to see that Mustang gave the mug no more than a glance before putting his head back down.

That was one thing that Flame could not fathom. How did Mustang manage to sit there and complete all of this work? As paper after paper was pushed to the side, Flame stared at his counterpart in amazement. His attention span appeared to be somewhat longer than Flame's own. At least, when it came to this sort of thing.

One by one, the other inhabitants of the office arrived and after looking unsurely between Mustang and Flame, they got to their own work. It was all very well, having Flame sit and watch the others work for half an hour, but if this was all that they planned on letting him do until someone figured out how to get him home, he wasn't going to stand for it.

"Can't I do something?"

Mustang looked up in surprise. It seemed as though he had forgotten Flame was there. "You want to do some of this?" he asked dubiously, pointing to the papers on his desk.

Flame made a face. "No, but there has to be something to do around here other than sit and watch you lot with your noses all to the grindstone."

"He has a point, sir," Havoc muttered. "It's boring for him there, and it's annoying for us."

"I suppose that you could head off to the library and do some research," Mustang said, fishing around in his top drawer for a minute before pulling a card out. "Take this to the librarian, and if you need to take any books out, she'll write down my number and the books' numbers too."

Flame took the card and looked it over. It was just a slip of cardboard with Mustang's name, number and signature on it. "Library is on the next floor up, in the South Wing, right?"

"Yep."

Good, it was in the same place as it was in his world. No problems.

* * *

At lunchbreak, Havoc pushed his peas around, and mashed his mashed potato more, until it covered the entire surface of his plate. This food was possibly the best meal he had had in a few days, but he couldn't stomach eating it. Not with whatever had been going on in the office. Even while he was thinking about it, he could hear the others bring their conversation around to it. 

"Did anyone else feel the awkwardness there?" Breda finally asked. "I thought that it must have been that Flame guy at first, but even when he left, it was still there."

"Definitely. Talk about uncomfortable."

"I couldn't even figure out who it was directed towards. All I know is that the Colonel didn't seem happy, and everyone seemed to be receiving the bad end of it."

Havoc snorted. "It might have something to do with the fact that he's had to take care of Flame for a few days now. Could just be too long for him, so that even when Flame's gone he's still tense."

The others nodded thoughtfully. It sounded reasonable, given the accounts that they had heard of Flame.

"It might be best if someone takes Flame off his hands for a while." Everyone looked at Feury. "Well, it's bad enough working with Colonel Mustang when he's in this bad a mood. Don't you think that we should give him a break for a while."

There were scattered glances and mumblings. On the whole, it seemed that everyone agreed with the idea, but no one wanted to be the one to do it. Finally Havoc spoke up. "Well, since you came up with the idea, it's only fair that you do the work, Feury. I'll let Mustang know that you've volunteered to take Flame for a while."

"But–"

"Very kind of you, really."

"I didn't–"

"You're a good fellow, Feury."

"I don't want to–"

"Yeah, we'll be off now."

Havoc put a last fork of potato in his mouth, and stood up, taking his tray away to the bins, where he scraped the rest of his food off, and stacked his tray on the table beside it.

This break would be good for Mustang. Maybe it would draw him out of his funk. Havoc had definitely noticed it, and wondered if Flame had really been able to cause that much harm in a few days. Sure, Mustang hadn't had _any_ help, but Havoc couldn't blame himself for avoiding the other-worlder.

At first, Havoc had thought that Flame must have been the one who turned up at Hawkeye's door, since his behaviour was so inexplicably unlike Mustang, but now, seeing his commanding officer like this, he was unsure. He brushed off his hands and began walking back to the office.

* * *

When the guys had left for their lunchbreak, Mustang had stayed behind, hoping to have some time to himself. Unfortunately, Hawkeye had stayed behind too. Well, at least this gave the opportunity for him to confront her about . . . particular issues. 

The room had been silent for some time, but now he put his pen down loudly. He took a second longer to word his accusation before blurting it out. "What exactly is happening between you and Havoc?"

She looked up sharply. "Excuse me, sir?"

"What's happening between you and Havoc?"

It seemed to take her a while to process the question as she blinked in confusion. Her fingers were fidgeting with her pen – a sure sign of guilt, he decided glumly. "What makes you think there is anything happening?"

He drew in a breath. She was avoiding the question, now. If it had been a simple "what do you mean", then maybe Mustang would have considered that she didn't actually know what he was talking about, but she seemed to understand him perfectly, and was avoiding answering him. This would not do. He didn't realise he was muttering about what Flame had told him – again – until she stood up, hands planted firmly on her desk.

"What?" The frown on her face was growing deeper. "I had thought that that must have been Flame when he walked off so abruptly, but–"

This time, it had been his turn to have his eyes widen with the shock throughout her last sentence. "You're not denying that it happened, then?"

"Denying that what happened?"

He groaned. Mustang couldn't gather the courage to say it himself, and she didn't appear to be about to announce it. He'd have to get at it slowly, approaching from another angle until she just _had _to come out and say it. "How did Havoc get your address?"

"Why does it matter?" She was floundering.

"That doesn't answer my question." Now he was standing too, arms folded obstinately across his chest. He wasn't going to let this just get past without having an answer.

Hawkeye sighed. "Colonel, everyone in the office knows my address. Why shouldn't Ha–"

Mustang thought that he was going to have a heart-attack. Flame's revelation about the importance of addresses had been firmly imprinted in his mind over the past day and a half. "Everyone in the office? What has been going on? I must have been _blind_ not to see all of this!"

Her fists were clenched, and Mustang could see plainly that she was talking through her teeth. "I don't want to know what you're implying,_ sir_, but I think it's clear that being cooped up with Flame for that long was not good for you."

"Now, look here. All I've gotten from Flame is the straight facts."

"Well, you might want to check whether those facts are as straight as you think before you go saying anything else," she hissed. "I will not put up with my reputation being sullied for nothing." With that, she spun around, striding out of the door. The door slammed behind her and Mustang sunk back into her seat.

He hadn't been _completely_ sure about the truth of Flame's assumptions before her spoke to her, true, but now he was even more confused. Nothing had been made certain by confrontation, and he was not used to that sort of result. With a sharp crack, his head met the desk. He didn't bother picking it up and getting back to work, or going and having his break. Instead, he just lay there for another five minutes until the door creaked open. Havoc's head poked around the corner. Mustang barely managed to stop a scowl from crawling onto his face.

Upon seeing Mustang, Havoc proceeded warily. From the look on his face, it was quite possible he had met Hawkeye in the hallway and been forewarned. Mustang shook the thought from his head. _Innocent until proven guilty_, he told himself.

"Colonel?" Havoc asked hesitantly.

It took some effort, but Mustang put a neutral expression on his face and looked up to acknowledge the man. "Yes?"

"A few of us were talking, and we thought that maybe you'd been having some issues with Flame, so Feury offered to take him off your hands for a little while." He spoke fast enough that all of his words had been run together.

"Ah, that's all very well, Havoc, but Feury can't do it," Mustang informed him simply. The expression on Havoc's face told Mustang that he hadn't counted on hearing that. "It's a nice offer, but Feury lives in the dorms, remember? No spare beds."

There was a quiet "damn!"

"Unless you want to take Flame for me, I'll have to take him again." The idea didn't seem as repulsive as it seemed to when Flame had been a more nauseating character, but now . . . Mustang paused to think. Flame seemed to have changed incredibly over only a few days. Other than keeping a few of his basic characteristics, he was a completely different person. How odd.

He could hear Havoc's shudder. "I . . . Yeah, alright. I'll take Flame for a day or two if you need the break, sir."

Mustang considered the offer. Flame had been the one to start the trouble of the Havoc-Hawkeye problem. If he was without the man for a while, maybe he could get the issue from his head. It was possible that it wasn't even an issue. He hadn't even thought it was until Flame convinced him of it, had he?

"Yes. You take Flame until Sunday, and then we'll organise some regular rotation." That way Flame wouldn't be with one person for long enough to make them go mad. Mustang couldn't help but smirk at the Havoc's expression of horror at having Flame for a whole two days. If he had had to put up with it, why not Havoc too?


	11. Explanations, Expostulations, and More E

**Disclaimer:** I do not own any of the main characters in this story. For the main part, they belong to Arakawa Hiromu, but the Roy look-alike belongs to the many fanfic writers out there who blatantly OOC him. Kindest regards to you all, and thank you for supplying me with a character

**

* * *

****Chapter eleven: Explanations, expostulations, and more explanations**

At the end of the day – and it had been an incredibly discomforting day after Hawkeye had come back to the office and stiffy returned to her seat – Mustang went up to the library and found Flame. The fellow was sitting at a table, poring over a stack of books, and wasn't roused until Mustang tapped him on the shoulder.

"You're going home with Havoc. The others decided it might be best for me to be without you, and after the explosion I faced at lunchtime today, I think might do better at absorbing whatever may have happened without you."

Flame looked at him for a moment. "Alright, then. I'll see if Havoc has anything to say about it."

Mustang sighed. Flame wasn't about to give up on his theory, and the conviction with which he held onto it only made Mustang more worried. "If you really want to, but don't go saying that this means this and that means that. You're making me overreact. For all I know, every little nuance in this world might mean something completely different to what it means in yours, and what you're saying could have no basis."

Snorting, Flame muttered "yeah, whatever," and started gathering up the books. "I want to check out these two, but the others can go back on the shelf," he said, passing two hardcover books to Mustang. "I just need to put these ones back, and then I'll be right to go."

While Flame returned the other few to the shelves, Mustang went to the librarian and presented his card – which had been lying on the table next to the books – so that the woman could take down his number. When Flame appeared by his side a few seconds later, she jumped almost a foot into the air.

"Uhh, I'm his brother . . . Donald," Flame said quickly, snatching up the books and letting Mustang pocket the card before walking off.

"Why did you have to say that?" Mustang asked when he caught up to Flame.

"I know," he groaned, "it was the first name I could think of."

Why did that matter, really? Mustang pulled on the other man's sleeve insistently to make him stop. "No, why did you have to give any name? Or say you're my brother."

Flame stared at him. "It isn't like we can go around telling people 'oh, this is me, but from a different world.' I had to say something." With a shake of the head, as though Mustang was crazy, he started walking again.

Mustang shrugged. "I don't think we needed to give an explanation." They could have gone by fine without one. People would just get over it in time. There really wasn't any need for an explanation unless someone asked for it.

A barking laugh popped its way up out of Flame's throat. "After she gave us that look? If I didn't say something, she would have fallen over in fright."

She had already almost done that when Flame appeared so suddenly, but Mustang didn't bother mentioning that. They almost reached the office when Flame mentioned something about clothes.

"Just borrowing off you and Havoc is annoying me. Unless we find a way to get me out of here soon, it'd be good to have at least one or two outfits of my own," he was saying.

Mustang nodded along. There was a good point there. Besides, when Flame was dressed in Mustang's clothing, it was harder for others to tell the two of them apart. If Flame had his own set of clothing, they could mark what it looked like and people would be able to tell a little bit easier who was who. The only issue was money.

"I'll see what we can do about it."

* * *

Havoc sighed. Flame was back on his hands again. Great. This was going to be good fun, dealing with this arrogant idiot again. 

"You're still going to be sleeping on the couch."

The door closed slammed loudly. "Damn it! At least Mustang's house had a guest bedroom!"

Havoc gave the man a glare. "I apologise for not having the money that Mustang does, but there's a key difference between his home and mine: he has a house, while all I can get with my salary is an apartment. You can't expect to have everything as big in here as it is there." To his surprise, the other man appeared slightly abashed and avoided bringing up the idea again.

He rubbed a hand through his hair wearily. "Argh! I have _got_ to have a shower!" His gaze fell on Flame, who was tugging his shoes off. When the seated man realised he was being stared at, he stared back.

"What? I thought it was you lot who were supposed to be 'keeping an eye' on me, not me watching you. You don't need my permission to go and de-filth yourself."

Havoc's stare all of a sudden became very flat. "Oh, you are indeed a master of the words," he said, giving a very fluttery mock bow before turning around and stalking into his bathroom.

* * *

Flame had a resolution. He _was_ going to find out what was happening, whether it took him an hour, or a whole week. He almost laughed at the thought. He hadn't been here a whole week yet – close, but not quite – and he was already making plans for the next week. But plans they were, and he intended to carry them out. His first plan of action was to observe Havoc, and determine his guilt from his actions. Then he would begin the first round of questioning – just light, so that the man didn't know what he was playing at. For a while after that, he would appear to back off, and give Havoc some breathing space, then come back in with harder questions more likely to take the Lieutenant off his guard. He would probably spill the beans then, but in the case that he didn't, Flame could always take it to a physical level. He was unconsciously cracking his knuckles at the thought of it. Funnily enough, the thought that made him stop was _Riza doesn't like it when I do that._ His Riza, of couse, but the thought was still odd. 

How was his Riza faring without him? No doubt she was single-handedly trying to track him down and shoot his 'kidnappers'. She did seem a little possessive, but then so was he. She would be forcing her way through work, only to continue researching way past her usual hours to see where he could have gone to. Either that, or in her disappointment of his absence, she would have quit her job for the military. He was the only reason she was there, after all. Flame hoped not. When he got home, he would have to find her and reinstate her into her job. Or maybe not. Maybe he could give up his bachelor days and ask her to marry him. The thought was very appealing, yet ominous at the same time. He was almost glad when Havoc returned from the shower and disturbed his thoughts, preventing his making a decision now.

Almost glad, that was, except for the fact that he had been so deeply immersed that when Havoc opened the door, he jumped at the sound and said something he wished he could have . . . ah . . . had a little more time to think over.

"How long have you and Hawkeye been sleeping together?"

The pause was just long enough for Flame to realise what a mistake he had just made – what a _terrible_ mistake he had just made – and yet the look on the other man's face was priceless.

"_What?_"

Dang. The next few days were going to be really awkward, now.

* * *

Oh, this week was going just fine and dandy, Hawkeye decided on her way home. 'Way home' was in relative terms, however: it was more of a warpath, really, considering the small children and animals that leapt out of the way when they saw the black expression on her face. 

What had been in his mind to make him – and there was no doubt which 'he' she was thinking of – ask that fateful question, she did not know. How it got into his mind in the first place, she didn't even _want_ to know. But the fact that he had been thinking about it – and seemed to be actually considering it as a truth! – for long enough to want to verify it by asking her was plain insulting. And then – if she wasn't very much so mistaken – he had to go and imply that she had been having relations with the whole office! She would have hoped that he wouldn't so much as entertain the thought, let alone voice it!

His behaviour was so irrational. If she hadn't seen Flame and the Colonel in the same room previously, and quite clearly observed that it was Flame who left, she might have thought that it had been him again, impersonating the Colonel. But neither she nor the Colonel had left the room at any stage until after their crossing of words.

A car pulling over on the side of the street drew her from her thoughts, especially when the Colonel stepped out. Determinedly, she narrowed her eyes and continued along as though he weren't there.

He didn't so much as ask her if she wanted a lift, or if she was alright, but instead hurried to catch up with her, and fell in pace beside her. She could feel his eyes watching her nervously, and she pointedly didn't send so much as one glare in his direction.

Step, step, step. Not saying a word. Step, step, step. Not looking at him. Step, step, step. He was still watching her. Step, step, step. Her fists clenched angrily. Step, step, step.

Five whole minutes of silence. A silence as thick and awkward as jelly would be if it tried to get up and walk. In this five minutes, they managed to accomplish only one thing: Hawkeye reached her apartment block. She jogged up the two stairs at the front, and – realising that he had stopped, still standing on the pavement – turned around, folding her arms over her chest.

"What gives you the right to question my integrity?"

"Nothing," he replied simply, watching her earnestly. She must have seemed as though she was waiting for an explanation, because after a pause, he went on. "Flame came to me in a panic because he had come to see you, and Havoc had been here. He assumed, and I didn't think anything of it, but you have to understand that two whole days gives a man a chance to mull things over something awful."

Yes, of course. That would be right. And that meant that it _had_ been Flame who had turned up at her door. "And so if he thinks that Havoc's being at my house meant . . . ugh!" She shuddered. Havoc was a friend. A _friend_, and she would never be able to resolve to see him as anything more. Mustang nodded glumly – he knew what she meant. "If he thought that, then why didn't you question him about his motives to come and visit me, all of a sudden."

The expression on his face told her that he wasn't impressed by whatever he had managed to get from Flame. "I did, and half an explanation was enough for me."

"So didn't you pause to think that having _Havoc_ who you _know_ and _trust_ there with me might have stopped Flame's 'exuberance' from getting the better of him? I can handle myself well enough, but I'd prefer to have someone to help me out if a sexually driven pervert turns up at my door."

Mustang winced. "He's not that bad, really."

Was he trying to dig himself as large a hole as Flame managed to? "Not that bad?" Her mouth hung open in disgust. "I'll allow that _only_ when you've been on the receiving end of his 'advances'."

She turned around, and threw open the door of the building, walking straight towards the staircase. She could hear his boots clomping on the ground as he rushed in after her.

"Can I come upstairs and explain?"

Icily, she rounded on him. "If you're so set in believing what that _Flame_ tells you about addresses, what gives you the right to think I'd allow you upstairs?"

In the time that it took him to lean back from her assault and widen his eyes in surprise, she had starting ascending the staircase.

"Look, Lieutenant." He was following her anyway. Couldn't he tell that he should _just leave the issue alone?_ He'd done enough to wreck anything they might have had, let alone the little that they did, and now all he was doing was pouring cement into the hole he had dug himself, to make sure that he didn't come back up. "I know that all the evidence is bad. There's absolutely no redeeming influence there for me, but let me try to gather my story in a way that doesn't cast me in a bad light."

"Is there any?" she sniffed.

"I shouldn't have suspected anything. I should have known your pristine character. I should have dragged Flame back over by the ear to apologise to you, I _know!_"

They reached her floor, and she took her keys from the satchel she carried. She didn't bother answering as they walked a short distance down the corridor, and his latest expostulations trailed off as a neighbour opened their door and stepped out into the hallway. She had her key in the lock and the door was open by the time the older man had started down the stairs at the other end of the hall, and she slipped in, pushing it back violently as soon as she was inside. There was some sharp cursing, but no satisfactory bang of the door closing, and Mustang hobbled in afterwards, pushing the door shut behind himself.

"I'm sorry!"

She dumped her satchel on the floor near a chair in the living room and seated herself regally, giving him an even stare. "Well. There we go, that's the first thing you should have said. _Now_ you may attempt to explain yourself." She gestured abruptly to the other chair, in which he sat hesitantly on the very edge.

He sighed, a worried frown in place on his brow. "It was just such a shock. All of a sudden, out of nowhere, Flame was telling me that you and Havoc must have been sleeping together, and although I _knew_ it couldn't be true, my mind just wouldn't let me discount it."

"Why not?" That had come out sounding a little sharper than she had intended, but she didn't do anything to mollify it. He could interpret it however he wished to.

He watched her, his eyes no longer pleading, just looking miserable. If the argument hadn't been about something so serious, she might have forgiven him then and there – she had her apology – but this was different.

"Because I didn't want it to be true, and those things are the sort that most often are."

Half of that answer was definitely above par. She didn't allow herself to say anything, and just waited for him to amend the second half.

"I was . . . jealous."

There it was. He'd finally figured out what made the whole mess, and she had convinced him – or allowed him to convince himself – of her complete innocence in the matter. She finally allowed her mask to crack, and a small smile implanted itself on her lips.

"So . . . will you accept my apology?" he asked, a tinge of hope invading his voice. His hands were gripping together so tight that she could see his knuckles turning white.

She stood up, and he stood only a second's beat later, still studying her cautiously. "I'll accept your apology."

A breath of air escaped his lips, and he gave her a relieved smile. She was about to turn away when he took a step closer to her. Startled, she watched as he nervously leant forwards and placed a kiss on her cheek. There was a moment of silence when neither knew what to say, before he laughed awkwardly and told her that he should walk back to his car now.

"Yes, sir."

She saw him to the door, and closed it behind him. No matter what sort of quarrels they had come to, he hadn't tried that before. That was mostly due to the fact that the majority of their arguments were minor, and usually both made and resolved in public places. Now that she thought of it, Colonel Mustang hadn't been inside her apartment since they had been transferred from Eastern, and she had needed help to move all of her furniture in, and even that had been with a few of the other guys from the office.

How odd.


	12. Death Sentences, Overpriced Thoughts, an

**Disclaimer:** I do not own any of the main characters in this story. For the main part, they belong to Arakawa Hiromu, but the Roy look-alike belongs to the many fanfic writers out there who blatantly OOC him. Kindest regards to you all, and thank you for supplying me with a character

**

* * *

****Chapter twelve: Death sentences, overpriced thoughts, and other worlds**

The sound of his feet beating on the floor of Central Headquarters was more than enough to make Havoc feel as though he was not running fast enough. Damn Flame and his need to be watched! Damn his constant whinging all night! Damn his apparent need for alcohol! Damn the revelations that could just cost Havoc all happiness and job security he might have had! Just _damn _the creature!

He skidded around another corner, his arms pumping by his sides, and breath becoming ragged. Stupid alarm clock that he hadn't remembered to set the night before. It left him sound asleep when he needed to be presenting the best possible face. He could have sworn that he didn't get _any_ sleep the night before, tossing and turning as he did, but it seemed that at one moment the sky was dark, and the next – after the merest blink of the eyes – it was seven forty-five, and he was already only fifteen minutes from being late for work. Fifteen minutes! It took that time alone to get to HQ, let alone get dressed and cram some food into his mouth – and make sure that the cause of all of this fuss was also ready, and in the car. Havoc did not want to know what having children was going to be like.

One last corner, and he could see the doors to the office. He leapt forwards and threw them open, just as he threw himself before Mustang's desk a moment later.

"_I didn't touch a hair on her head! She's all yours! I didn't do anything, I promise!!_" As his yells died down, he risked a glace up at Mustang's astonished face. "Please don't fire me . . ." That could have been taken two ways, and he didn't want to be fired in any sense of the phrase.

A silence echoed around the room, and Mustang's head seemed to flick towards Hawkeye, who was sitting behind her desk. Havoc risked a glimpse behind himself to see that the rest of the crew were watching in abject horror and fascination. What was going to happen to him?

"Don't be silly, Lieutenant Havoc. Stand up and get to work – you're twenty minutes late."

Shocked, he rose to his feet, and risked another blatant stare at Mustang. An amused smile was painted on his face, and there appeared to be no imminent danger of any harm to Havoc's person. That meant that . . . maybe Flame hadn't spoken to Mustang about his ideas, then. Havoc tottered over to his desk and sat down. Or Mustang was saving his punishment for later. But he seemed so light-hearted today, and yesterday he was so moody!

"Havoc . . ."

There it was – his death sentence. Now Mustang would choose to reveal that Havoc would be spending the next five years as a mere peon, working away any possible rumours there may have been of his ever laying hands on Hawkeye. It wasn't just because Mustang seemed to have a thing for that particular Lieutenant that Havoc was afraid, but also the confusing fact that at times he seemed to treat her like a younger sister. Havoc didn't know what was worse: the wrath of a protective brother, or of a lover. He also didn't want to find out like this.

"Havoc."

Mustang's voice didn't sound so calm this time. He was beginning to sound a little put out. Maybe it was best to answer him before he got too angry.

"Y-Yes, sir?"

"Where is Fla-?"

Flame strutted in through the doors that Havoc had left open in his panicked attempt to free himself from any guilt. His blatant self-assurance was painted on his face, and he entered the room as though he owned it.

"Never mind," Mustang said. He raised his voice for Flame's sake. "Flame, for the benefit of all, I believe it would do you some good to not make assumptions based on so little evidence. I believe that both Lieutenant Hawkeye and Lieutenant Havoc require apologies for the accusation placed against them."

Havoc gripped his desk. Then Mustang knew what Flame had said, and didn't believe it? Of course it wasn't true, but Havoc was so relieved that he sunk back in his chair. He hadn't wanted to be around if the case was that Mustang merely hadn't heard about them, and Flame suddenly decided to enlighten him.

"They what? You aren't going to just believe that nothing is happening?" Flame asked, his face dropping from its assurance into shock quickly.

"I have spoken with Lieutenant Hawkeye about the matter, and she assures me that nothing of the sort occurred," Mustang replied calmly. "Lieutenant Havoc himself has this morning verified that the claim was false."

So that was how Mustang was going to explain his, uh, outburst earlier. It did sound a lot better than saying 'Havoc grovelled at my feet in an attempt to persuade me he didn't sleep with my unofficial girlfriend.' It didn't make him sound half so desperate, for one.

"And you're going to believe the words of these two . . ? These two who were involved in the whole thing . . ? What about me! I saw it with my own two eyes-!"

"What," Hawkeye interrupted fiercely, "exactly, did you see with your 'own two eyes'? Other than the lies that you chose to tell the Colonel." Her eyes were narrowed dangerously. She may have been a woman, but Havoc was infinitely glad that he wasn't Flame at that moment.

Flame looked over at her. "Lies?" he questioned, grimacing distastefully. "Well what I _did _see was Havoc in your apartment, for starters."

"Then I take it that you also saw him enter about five minutes prior to that, wanting eggs for his breakfast?"

"Breakfast?" Flame asked sarcastically. "At noon?"

Now was the time for Havoc to put in his two cens worth. "Hey, when I sleep in, I sleep in. No matter when you wake up, the first thing you eat is breaking your fast, that's why it's called _break-fast_."

Flame gave him a sharp look. Maybe he shouldn't have spoken. "Yeah, alright," the man grumbled, and walked out. Walked out? He'd stopped arguing? Maybe his two cens were actually worth a bit more than he had thought. Maybe they were actually his five thousand cens . . . no, even he could see that that was pricing himself a little high.

"Flame, where are you going?" Mustang called out, not bothering to move from his desk. There was a faint call back of 'library', and Mustang nodded, sitting back in his chair.

"Hopefully that's over with," Hawkeye said, rolling her pen around in her hand. "Very well, then. Back to work with the rest of you." They all ducked their heads down, and focussed on the papers before them.

* * *

Breakfast at noon. Hah! Even when he had been out drinking, or with a date all night, Flame still managed to breakfast by ten o'clock, and _then_ he went straight back to bed. None of this lollygagging around until twelve before so much as stirring. 

The librarian looked at him warily as he entered, but he gave her a stunning smile and continued on to find a decent bookshelf. The faster he was out of here, the better – then they wouldn't be able to drag him into all of these messes. Just because he was right about this didn't mean that they in their high-and-mighty, we're-perfect-because-we're-from-the-good-world attitudes could just shut him down like that. They just stuck together because they knew each other. And, in his mind, that's exactly what Hawkeye and Havoc had just done: known each other, in every sense of the word.

Well. He had had the idea of stealing Hawkeye away from Havoc the day before, but now he didn't know if he could stand her, with all of those accusations she had been so bold as to throw at him. But she _was_ just attractive enough that he might try it anyway. It would give him something to think about while he was stuck here – he had conveniently forgotten about the research he was supposed to be conducting.

So how was he supposed to seduce Hawkeye? What did she like in a guy? Well, obviously she liked a man in uniform, so he had that down-pat as long as he could make sure she didn't think he was utterly repellent. With a sigh for himself, he decided that he would have to make sure that she thought he was Mustang. Yes, he was doing this for Mustang's sake – _he was!_ – but he couldn't slip up and be interesting, or she'd know him for himself and there would go all of his hard work.

She had seemed to fall for Havoc, so what was it about Havoc that attracted her to him? His height (maybe he could wear some tall shoes, or make sure he was always standing on a step above her)? His cigarettes (it might take an age for the bad effects of those to wear off, but he could give them a try)? His talent with guns (that might have been closer to it, but Flame with a gun would be enough to make the more talented sniper cry)? His lack of being able to get a proper girlfriend (that was something that Flame could _not_ simulate, but maybe it wasn't quite accurate, since Havoc had managed to capture the attention of _the_ Riza Hawkeye)?

Maybe the addiction was the best way to go, but Flame didn't want to spoil his body with some filthy drug-stick. He already had a lot of exposure to smoke, and that wasn't going to help him any more, health-wise. Maybe he could think of some other addiction. What did people often eat, drink, or do that was bad for them, but that acted like a magnet for the women? Something that wasn't too hard for him to pick up, and put down when he wanted to stop it. Something that at least felt good for the time-being, so he'd have a bit of fun along the way.

Alcohol.

He gasped out loud when he remembered that beautiful liquid. He had just been thinking about it seven paragraphs ago – blinking, he shut that thought out of his head. Paragraphs? – but he hadn't touched a drop in a week. Mustang may have stocked it, but while he was there, Flame had all the comfort he needed in being near the bottle, and hadn't actually needed to drink it. Of course, this was because Mustang had told him that he only bought a bottle once every few months, so Flame had felt the need to ration it out, and keep it until he became a little more desperate.

So Hawkeye liked addictions, eh? He could manage that. The only hard part would be to make her think that he was Mustang and not Flame. That would require some precision timing.

"Mustang, what are you doing in the library?"

Well, it appeared that someone had mistaken him for his mirror-image again. Who was it going to be this time, and what petty excuses would he be forced to make? He turned around calmly, but once he saw the person, his face lit up in an evil grin.

"Short-stick! What are you doing here?"

Limbs flailed about wildly, and Flame had to take a step back to avoid being decked in the face. "What! _Who are you calling so short that they'd get lost in a patch of grass?_"

The reaction almost made Flame take a step back in shock. After he had composed himself, a gasp of elation escaped his throat. "Finally! Someone who reacts the same way here as they do in my world!"

Fullmetal glared at him. "What, are you some sort of alien life-form, now? Why am I not surprised?"

"Shush, shush," Flame said, waving a hand in Fullmetal's direction. "I'm not the Colonel Mustang you know. I'm a different one, right, pipsqueak?"

"Pipsqueak?? I'll get you for that one, you know. Someday when you're sleeping, I'll get you . . ."

This was the way he was used to it with Fullmetal, and he was glad to find someone who hadn't changed. An insult here and there always went well in the conversation, and he knew that the most the boy would do to him was pull a prank on him. He'd never actually done anything serious before. Right?

"So where's your brother? He usually around here somewhere."

Eyes still glinting dangerously, Fullmetal gave him a glare. "Al's around here somewhere. He's looking for books on other worlds."

Flame thought that his eyes must have bulged out of their sockets. He had gone hours away to find an alchemist willing to look for how to get into other worlds for him, and now he found out that he could have just come to the Elrics! Why didn't he think of this earlier?

"Oth- . . . other worlds?"

"Yeah, we've decided that other worlds might hold the key to getting out of this whole mess. If there are other worlds, then there are sure to be other Als, and other Edwards, and at least _one_ of them must have normal bodies, right? But I've always wondered how many worlds there are, and how to get to all of them."

"Fullmetal, if you find _anything_, come to me about it."

The boy looked at him suspiciously. Flame could see him trying to puzzle out the simple question that he voiced a moment later. "Why?"

There was a pause in which Flame considered what to say. How to show the boy – after all, this was Fullmetal. Fullmetal should be allowed to know. "Come to my office," he finally told the boy, before turning around and starting to walk away.

"What? Oh, fine. Just let me get Al first."

"Yeah, yeah."

* * *

Mustang looked up from his paperwork for a moment to allow his eyes a break. Today seemed to be going along a lot better than the previous one, and he was quite happy with himself for figuring out what was happening. 

The others were working, but after a moment Havoc glanced up, and seeing Mustang looking at him, he put his pen down. "Sir, when were we meeting to discuss the, uh, custody arrangements for Flame?"

That's right, Havoc didn't want to have Flame, did he? Well, Mustang didn't blame him. "Tomorrow," he said. "Bring Flame to my apartment and the three of us will figure something out."


	13. Grand Entrances, Astute Watchers and Cus

**Disclaimer:** I do not own any of the main characters in this story. For the main part, they belong to Arakawa Hiromu, but the Roy look-alike belongs to the many fanfic writers out there who blatantly OOC him. Kindest regards to you all, and thank you for supplying me with a character

**

* * *

****Chapter thirteen: Grand entrances, astute watchers, and custody battles**

The doors opened with a bang, and Flame made his entrance into the office for the second time that day. Again, he was completely smug and self-assured, and carried himself in that same arrogant manner. He had no reason to be anything other than assured. This time, however, he was followed in by two familiar alchemists.

When he walked in, a few of the occupants looked up to see whom it was, and went back to work with a grimace on their face when they saw Flame. He didn't know whether to be offended or whether to take advantage of the fact that no one was paying him any attention.

He turned to look at the younger alchemists. There wasn't a lot of expression on Al's face – the whole trapped-in-a-suit-of-armour deal made it a little hard for him to show a lot of emotion – but Ed's reaction was more the sort of reaction that he had expected from anyone who saw the himself and Mustang together.

Ed looked from one man to the other, confusion evident on his face. "What–? How–?"

"And _there_ is your proof that other worlds exist, shrimpy," Flame said happily, ignoring the glowering of a lifetime he was getting from Ed. "A bona-fide imitation of me."

There was a quick snort from the other side of the room. "Imitation of you, Flame? I'd hate to see the poor fool who had to put up with being _your_ imitation." Mustang hadn't even given him the courtesy of looking up from the sheets he was poring over.

What did he expect an imitation of Flame to be like, if it afforded him so much pleasure? It wasn't as though they were all that different. "At least an imitation of me wouldn't turn out as boring as you are." It was true – what did Mustang ever do, anyway? He just sat and did the work given him like some unthinking drone.

Finally, Mustang looked up. "Boring? I'd like to see you try to handle something worthwhile then."

"I don't need worthwhile, I just want to have fun," Flame insisted. There was nothing wrong with just wanting to have a good time. "I'm the real Roy Mustang here." There. He had said it. He may have been the odd one out, but maybe all of the others were just figments of his imagination. Who knew? It wasn't like they could tell him, because they would just insist that they were real and he was the intruder.

But it seemed that this had managed to get a reaction out of Mustang, at least. "Real? You don't know the meaning of it – you never actually do anything that could give your life some meaning. If your life doesn't mean anything, then how can you claim to be real?"

Since when did doing anything mean that you were real? Hadn't he ever heard of the phrase 'I think, therefore I am'? "Doesn't change that I'm the real one," Flame pointed out, staring at his counterpart. He didn't need some big, fancy argument.

Mustang stood up and looked him directly in the face. Flame waited for the long tirade.

"No you're not."

"Am too."

With a growl, Mustang turned to Ed. "Don't listen to him, Fullmetal. He'll say anything to get a reaction." Flame supposed that he didn't want Flame's influence to be affecting the kid too much.

Ed's eyes widened. "I'm not the one who's reacting," he said quickly, stepping back from the argument. He was still watching the two of them closely, with the same sort of fascination that draws people to look at a car crash as they pass by on the road.

Flame pretended to clean his nails, and laughed – it was mainly for effect more than anything else. "There's nothing you can do about it. I either am the real one or I'm not, and I _am_ the real Roy Mustang."

Slowly, Mustang eased himself back into his chair. He picked up a pen and looked at his work again. "He's just a show off," he muttered towards Ed. He was still instructing the kid? "Just ignore him and he'll go away."

Since when was Flame about to go away when people ignored him? It just made teasing them so much more fun. Oh, he'd take care of this one quickly. "If you're so real, then why don't you do something that takes bravery?" Mustang hadn't done anything courageous the whole time that Flame was there, and he was getting sick of it.

The other man's eyes narrowed dangerously. "Bravery? You don't know bravery. You're a whole lot of bluster and gas"

Here it was. He was going to say it. This time he had actually had the time to think about it beforehand, too, so it wasn't a spur of the moment reaction gone wrong. Flame just hoped that this would work the way he wanted to instead of backfiring. If it worked, he might not have to do anything himself later – he had started almost looking forward to his plans, but this might just make it a little easier on him. "If you think that you're brave, why don't you kiss Riza?"

He could see the confusion flashing over Mustang's face. And when he looked in Hawkeye's direction . . . was that a blush, or was he imagining it? Or maybe she was just getting angry. Look away Flame! Don't make direct eye contact!

"Why should I kiss Riza?" Mustang didn't seem to take notice of the astounded stares in his direction, until what he just said clicked into his mind. "Hawkeye, I mean," he corrected hurriedly. "Why should I kiss Hawkeye?"

Flame took a step forwards, a smile blooming slowly on his face. "You just called her Riza."

Mustang glared at him. "You kept saying it, and I got confused."

That wasn't good enough. There had to be something else there. "You were confused, alright. Forgot where you are, I dare say." He looked at the other man curiously. "Have I been missing something? Maybe there really was something going on between you two all of this time. Maybe the reason why you're so sure that your two Lieutenants aren't together is because–"

Before he had so much as reached the second 'maybe', Flame could already see several people opening their mouths to stop him from continuing, but surprisingly enough, the one who got there first was Al. The suit of armour coughed uncomfortably. "Look, I don't know how there are two different Colonels, but . . . er, Mr. Flame? Maybe you should stop there. A woman's business is a woman's business, no matter how crazy you are."

Flame dropped the subject, and everyone settled back uneasily, still watching just in case something else happened.

"So," Ed spat out to break the lull, "tell me again, how are there two of you?"

* * *

At first glance, the room would have seemed completely normal to any outsider. The breeze was making its way in through one window, and rustling the curtains slightly, the birds were making their attempts at sounding jolly in the outside world. The room itself held nothing remarkable – there were a few mismatched chairs sitting around a table, none of which seemed to be made of the same sort of wood, the colours themselves were light and didn't impose much of a reaction upon the room itself. 

The more astute watcher might peer into the faces of the three men sitting around the table, firmly rooted to their chairs. The identical expressions painted there were not those of open enmity, but rather just a hint that what had passed in the room was not what said astute watcher would want to have been privy to. In fact, if said astute watcher had actually managed to stumble into the room and catch a glimpse of these heated glares, they would wisely stumble back out of the room, or be dragged into much the same argument as had placed those expressions there.

All three men had their hands clenched, lying on the table, and at all times tried to keep an eye on either of the others – they didn't want to leave themselves open to attack from one, and so had to defend from both to prevent any weakness from showing. Their breathing had at first been loud and harsh, as though the astute watcher – who _still_ hasn't left, since they continue to observe these actions – has just entered the room after a bout of yelling. In fact, this author is quite surprised that the "astute watcher" didn't realise that the loud racket they heard emanating through the door they just entered through was in fact this trio making their opinions heard as loudly as they could, so now, this author is going to dispose of "astute watcher" – astute, my foot! – and continue with the story. Ahem.

"Alright," Mustang finally said, when he had caught his breath. "So we don't know exactly how to fix this. Let me make a proposal, though." When the other men started rising up out of their seats, he shushed them down. "Wait, wait. Just hear what it is. If you don't like it, we can come up with something else in a calm and rational manner."

The two others looked at each other momentarily, scaling each other up. Almost as though seeing if it was worth the fight. Finally, each of them gave a tight nod and seemed ready to co-operate. Mustang let out a breath that he had been holding onto.

"Well. Flame doesn't like staying at Havoc's because he doesn't get his own room. Havoc doesn't like Flame staying at his house because you don't get along. I like Flame staying at Havoc's house because it gives me a break. Am I right so far?"

Flame started forwards. "I just don't want to have to sleep on that couch all the time."

Mustang waved his hand at him in what he hoped was a calming gesture. "Yes, that's fine. Now, Flame likes staying at my house because I have a guest room." Flame nodded silently. "I don't like Flame staying at my house because he's a lot to take care of. Havoc likes Flame staying at my house because it means that he gets a break, _but_ Havoc _doesn't_ like Flame staying at my house because then his boss is . . ." he paused to look at Havoc.

"Use the words I told you," Havoc growl, teeth gritted. Mustang wondered whether he should have the man punished for insubordination. "That's _exactly_ what it's like, and you're too close to the situation to be able to see it properly."

With another glare, he submitted hesitantly. "Because then his boss is cranky at work, and Havoc bears the brunt of it." Cranky. As though he were a child – ha! He paused. He still didn't like the way that the conversation was looking so far, but if he managed to work it out to some extent, it would be a whole lot less of a hassle. Either way, he was probably going to end up dealing with Flame a lot more than Havoc, so he may as well make it as even as he could and just accept the left overs. "This, then, is what I propose."

The other two leant forwards eagerly. Four hours of trying to work this out, and it almost coming to a fist-fight twice made them eager for negotiations to finally draw to an end. If this plan was decent, then they might actually get out of her before dinner time.

"Weeknights," Mustang announced. "Monday midday through to Friday midday Flame is at my house. That means Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday nights, I'll take care of Flame. Friday through to Monday morning, however, is when Havoc gets him." He paused to allow his co-worker to think it over. "I'm offering to take him for four days of the week, and you only have to have him three days. How's that?"

"But I don't want to have to sleep on that couch three nights in a row. My back will start to mould to it," Flame whined. Two heads looked over in his direction, eyes aflame. He pouted. He had the name, so why couldn't _his_ eyes be aflame? It wasn't fair.

"It's possible that we could break up the time when we each have him," Havoc said, actually sounding as though he was making an effort to make his voice sound amiable. "Like, I'll have him Friday, Saturday and Wednesday nights, and you can have him Sunday, Monday, Thursday."

"Where do I sleep for Tuesday, genius?"

Were those gears ticking in Havoc's head what Mustang thought? If that pensive expression on his face was suggesting what he believed it to, then Havoc could just forget that idea. Mustang didn't want to say it out loud just in case Flame used it to restart his suggestions – it had taken the two of them long enough to make him forget about it in the first place. There was no way that Mustang was going to spend the next half hour trying to make Flame forget about staying at Hawkeye's apartment again.

He doubled the glare he had focussed on Havoc. "_No_."

Luckily for Havoc, he seemed to take the glare into account, and all ticking gears seemed to stop. Before Flame could take the time to realise what had just been prevented, Mustang spoke again.

"I think that this arrangement will do for now. Havoc, you have him Friday afternoon through to Monday morning, and I'll take him the rest of the time. We can try it out for two weeks – if it takes that long – and if there are any problems in that time, we can sit down again _after those two weeks_ and try again. I don't want to have to go through this on _every_ day we have off, so we're not going to re-evaluate every week."

There, that should do it. At least, the other two men appeared to have been cowed into submission. This would at least give them a solid idea of when they had their free time.

"I don't see why you think that having Flame during my only day off each week is fair compensation for not having to put up with him for one measly extra night," Havoc grumbled.

Mustang looked at him in surprise. There was a thick moment of awkwardness in which Havoc attempted to crawl back into himself to escape Mustang's look of amazement. "Would you like to swap, then, Lieutenant?"

"No, sir," the answer came quickly.

"Good. Then it's settled."

_

* * *

Ok guys, I don't usually do this because I don't like excessive author's notes, and I don't usually just talk – I ramble, thus making short notes hard for me. But I felt that this was worth sharing. You don't know what happened between the boys before that dang astute watcher had to come in (and how he/she got into Mustang's house, I'll never know. Maybe he has a spare key hanging around – I'll bet that the fangirls never thought to look under his doormat when they were pounding on his door, hoping to bust in and catch him in the shower). _

_So, here's what happened. I was planning out the chapter and my brother was on the computer, so I couldn't type it up myself, and ended up starting to write it on a scrap of paper. It started out fairly logical, but became wilder pretty quickly. Oh, and before I let you read it, this is my very rough working out. When I definitely know what conversation's going to happen, I write that out first, and put in description later. So this is the basic conversation that the three guys **might** have had before anyone burst in on them. Keep in mind that this is a **might**, and so my brain allowed them to start becoming OOC. So these are my notes, as I wrote them. Spacing wasn't an option, but you can figure out who's talking from the initial:_

End scene – Ed demands an explanation about the x2 Colonels

New scene – next day, M, F & H are figuring out their custody battle: ("You take him!" "No, you take him!" F: "Can't I just stay with Mustang? He's got a guest room." H: "Yes. Stay with the Colonel." M: "Nuuu! You saw what happened last time he had to stay with me!" H: "That doesn't mean it'll happen again – you know I'm not going to sleep with Hawkeye." M: "Well, I know that _she_ wouldn't have _you_, in any case." H: "Uaaah!? Hey, I could have her if I wanted." F: "Plz, nub-sticks." M: "Yeah, what he said." F: "Besides, Hawkeye's mine." –deathly silence . . . M's muscles all tensed up. H's trying to be as silent as possible, so as not to draw attention. F looks about in surprise- F: "What, you're not telling me to back off?" –M reaches into his pocket . . . there is the distinct sound of a snap- F: "**_AAAH!!!_**" H: "Thank you for being careful not to set my pants on fire, too, sir."

_Then I sort of got to the end of the page, and had no more room to write, so I had to stop . . . So I suppose that that's some sort of outtake for you. Enjoy._

_-Dai_


	14. Uniforms, Phone Numbers, and Half Filled

**Disclaimer:** I do not own any of the main characters in this story. For the main part, they belong to Arakawa Hiromu, but the Roy look-alike belongs to the many fanfic writers out there who blatantly OOC him. Kindest regards to you all, and thank you for supplying me with a character

**Notes:** Ok, so I'm allowing myself an indulgence. Usually in this time, not all houses had telephones, but I'm letting that slip for now . . . I realised that I did it in an earlier chapter, and I may as well continue it now.

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****Chapter fourteen: Uniforms, phone numbers, and half-filled schooners**

Two months. It had been two whole months, of this . . . this . . . this _torture!_ Flame didn't know how long it was going to take him to find a way home – he was starting to forget about it now. It was almost as though the idea itself was fading into the background. Except for a night every now and then when he cried himself to sleep thinking that maybe _his_ Riza had started to sleep with the Havoc in his world. And, _no, he was not going to forget that outrage!_

Mustang had come to trust him more, in time, but that incident in the first week seemed to have cast a scar over his name. For a few weeks, whenever anyone spoke about him, it was in tones of general distaste. He hadn't done anything too bad over the past months. In fact, he had made a genuine attempt to tone down his whole . . . self. It was scary, really – he now spent enough time around these people that occasionally he even freaked himself out by saying something that made him sound like Mustang.

On the upside, his sounding like Mustang helped out on "Mission Get Hawkeye And Mustang Together Via Flame." Or, as he liked to shorten it: Mission Get HAM TV Flame – it sounded like some sort of food channel on Foxtel. Yes, it was still a long title for a mission, but it was shorter nonetheless. It helped whenever he started speaking out loud by accident. Once he had done just that around Havoc, and the man had thought he couldn't decide whether he was hungry or crazy. That had started a dispute about television, and Flame had discovered quite sadly that it was not just that these paupers around him didn't have enough money for anything, but also that nothing worthwhile had been invented. Nothing that could provide good entertainment, anyway.

The first month had really just been preparation for his mission. He didn't know how he had managed to spend that long just setting up the real thing, especially since it had been so boring. But he used the time to gain his comrades' trust, and was quite happy when they decided that they didn't have to keep tabs on him all of the time. He suspected that the relieved tone in Mustang and Havoc's voices had not been faked.

This month, he had managed to convince Mustang to let him help out in the office. It made for boring work, but his research was going nowhere, and the few times he had managed to speak with Fullmetal, the kid made it obvious that he didn't need any help with his own research. So he had begun with small things, like just doing the stapling. Yes, it wasn't particularly interesting, but he could keep his mind focussed on something when was in his interests. They'd even let him tag along on one of their latest fieldwork expeditions, provided that he did whatever they said, when they said.

With the trust of this group, Flame could do anything he wanted. Well, almost anything, provided that he didn't start being, you know – himself – again. So that was how he managed to convince Mustang to allow him to wear a uniform. It wasn't that he liked the uniforms all that much; it was just that he felt the need to be back in something familiar. That classy cotton feel of the fabric, the polished boots . . . oh, fine! So he was trying to use the uniform to help his Mission. The fact was that if they knew the clothes he wore – because they had pulled together and bought him two outfits after a while – then they could recognise him. However, if he wore the same clothes as Mustang, Hawkeye was less likely to catch him out.

Talking about Hawkeye, she hadn't been as hostile to him lately as she had been in that first week. He didn't know whether he was finally charming her somewhat, or whether she was just less irritable. Of course, there was the idea that he had attempted taming his personality, but he still couldn't see how the exciting individual he had been before could be less enchanting than this more Mustang-like version of himself. It was almost painful.

So what had he gained over the months? A uniform and a little bit of respect. Good, now on to phase two of The Mission.

You see, Mustang wasn't as perfect as he seemed – that bottle of whiskey he kept back at his house? It only opened him up to possible vices. The sort of vices that will make a man talk. That's why Flame had invited the man out to a bar. True, Mustang had only had two drinks of his own volition, but after Flame had forcefully poured some more down his throat – and it was a bit of a struggle with Mustang trying to push him away, but he had managed to get enough down there eventually – he had taken to the drinks offered him a little more readily.

"I don't think I want any more," the man slurred.

Flame clicked his tongue. "You haven't had anything yet."

The way that Mustang was swaying slightly detracted from the stare he was giving to both Flame and the table covered with shot glasses before them. So maybe Mustang's constitution wasn't as strong as Flame's. In fact, he did remember someone or other mentioning an iron liver and himself in the same sentence back at home.

"Alright," Flame admitted. "So maybe you don't want a whole lot more. Just one more shot? Then I'll leave you alone, I promise." He watched the other man, hoping that the eagerness in his face wasn't as obvious as it felt.

"Just one more?"

"One more."

There was a moment as Mustang seemed to pause to think, but then he reached across the table slowly for one of the remaining filled shot glasses. Dragging the glass across the surface, he lifted it slowly. At the pace he was going, Flame didn't know whether it would even reach his mouth by the time he had tipped it. Finally the liquid disappeared down the other man's gullet, and a grimace appeared on his face.

His voice was slow and stumbled around the words as he spoke. "Can we go home now? It's got to be past midnight, and I think you just used up a quarter of this week's paycheque."

Flame sighed. Alright, this would have to do, then. "Just hold on for a minute. I need to talk to the bartender before we go." He picked himself up from his seat and walked to the bar with a quick stride. He hadn't had more than three shots, and he was used to the effect. For him it was more like a quick dash of water in those small doses.

He approached the bartender, who looked up from the glass he was polishing. "Excuse me, but I'm here with, uh, my brother," Flame began, "and he's been through a bit of a hard patch recently." He turned to look at Mustang and gave the bartender ample time to see the man starting to doze off on the table. "I'm afraid that he might come here and start drinking a bit when I can't keep an eye on him. If he does, would you please be able to call this number and let the woman on the other end know that a Mr. Roy Mustang needs some help making his way home?" He flourished a scrap of paper with a phone number on it.

The bartender glanced at the number. "Yeah, sure thing, Mr. . . ?"

"Don Mustang," Flame said with a grimace. He had had to use the name a few times again since the librarian issue, and had managed to cut it down from Donald to Don. At least it sounded a little bit better – it made him seem somewhat fashionable, but he missed being called Roy.

"I'll just write this down," the bartender said in his rumbling voice. He pulled out a book and scribbled out both the name and number. For a moment he paused and frowned at what he had just written. "His name was Roy, wasn't it?"

"Yeah."

He scribbled something out and re-wrote it. "Okay. Thanks for letting me know. I'll keep an eye on him for you."

Thanking the other man in return, Flame walked back to Mustang, shoving him to wake him up. "Alright, it's time to go home now." The semi-conscious man on the table groaned and allowed himself to be roused. He stood and followed Flame out on shaky legs.

Was Flame a genius, or was he a genius? Who else could have come up with such a spectacular plot but himself? Hawkeye's number hadn't been that hard to get – he got it from the same guys who gave him her address – and if she heard that Mustang had drunk himself into a stupor, she would be ready to come running and pull him out of his problems, wouldn't she? He had looked at it from every possible angle and he couldn't see any problems with it. Maybe if she was still as suspicious of him as she had been before, this might not work, but she was loosening up and had become willing to give him a little slack. A very little.

* * *

Mustang arrived at work the next day with a headache that didn't seem willing to go. There were reasons why he didn't drink a lot. Some people remembered what happened when they got drunk, some didn't. Heck, he didn't even remember enough to know whether he was a violent drunk or a happy drunk, or whatever else there may have been. So, he had sworn off drinking in large quantities. That didn't explain why all he could remember of last night was two drinks and some sort of struggle before he woke up, inexplicably back at home, dressed in clothes that reeked of alcohol, and lying on a pillow that smelled of the same. He had been sure to shower well this morning, to get rid of the smell, and all that Flame had said about last night was that he had become unco-operative, and to leave it at that. Mustang didn't want to know what he must have done, and took Flame's advice. 

Yet all of that didn't change the fact that he had come to work with a massive hangover. On a Wednesday, no less. It made him look as though he was an alcoholic when he winced every time he someone tried to open the blinds or when he gulped at his coffee. Flame was keeping out of the way today. He hadn't said a lot, for which Mustang was grateful, but he didn't understand why. Oh wait, Flame had said something about liking his alcohol before. He probably knew what this was like and knew not to disturb him. Smart move.

Mustang tried to make his eyes focus on the papers before him. They swam about, but he managed to read them well enough. The problem came when he got to the bottom of the page and didn't understand what he had just read. Now he also knew why Flame disliked working so much – it was a lot harder to do when still partially inebriated. How _much_ had he drunk last night?

* * *

A shrill sound pierced the darkness, forcing open a pair of disgruntled eyes that stared in the direction of the noise, willing it to stop. When it didn't, the owner of the eyes crawled her way out of bed and plodded along the floor of her bedroom, out into the hallway, clutching her pyjamas closer around her body for warmth. 

She picked up the ringing phone. "Hello, this is Riza Hawkeye," she said in as light a tone as she could manage when she had just been awakened in the middle of the night by a phone call. This had better be serious, or she was going back to bed, no matter who it was.

"I'm sorry for waking you up, Miss, but I have a Roy Mustang here, and he's sort of . . . passed out. I was told to call this number if this happened."

The Colonel was passed out? Why? How had it happened? Was he hurt? "Where are you calling from?" The man gave her a brief address, somewhere far enough away that she groaned. Not quite on the other side of the city, otherwise she might not have even known the name of the street, but still too far for a late-night jog. "Alright, I'll come get him."

The building she found herself standing outside of later was not very impressive. She had allowed herself time to get dressed before leaving – just because she was tired didn't mean that she would let herself become forgetful – but it had still taken her longer than she had expected to walk from her apartment to this place. She pushed the door open, and stepped inside.

The man behind the bar glanced up as she entered, and approached her. "Miss Hawkeye, is it?"

"Yes." The snap in her tone was not purely from having been woken up at this hour. The walk over had served to let several ideas run through her head. First, why would he drink this much? Second, was something going on in his life that she didn't know about? Third, was this even Mustang? And fourth, for all she knew, this could have just been Flame playing some sort of trick.

"Mr. Mustang is just at the back. He came to, a few minutes ago, but last I checked, he was down again. Just sleeping on the table, I think."

She looked at him evenly. "How did you get my number?"

It was almost expected that the bartender would now look at her in shock and ask if she hadn't known about this, but he nodded sagely. "Most men don't tell people around them if something's wrong. His brother was here with him a two nights ago, and Mr. Mustang there was in this condition then. His brother gave me your number, just in case it happened again."

A frown crept onto her face. That didn't quite sound right. "Are you sure it wasn't the man who gave you the number whose name was Roy?"

"No, I'm quite sure. I wrote down the name of the one who I had to watch for, and the phone number he gave me – it's the usual deal when people get to this state. The man who spoke to me was called . . ." He paused a moment, thinking.

Hawkeye didn't bother letting him come up with it himself. "Don," she told him. Mustang had alerted the rest of the office to Flame's alias, and they had come to refer to him by it in public. It meant that they didn't have to wonder whether it would be best to alert the officials as to Flame's presence or not.

"Yes, that was it."

She still didn't know whether it was Flame or Mustang there, but if Mustang had been in before and was in the same state then . . . As a matter of fact, now that she thought of it, he was acting oddly a few days ago. She had almost been tempted to turn on her desk lamp, since he wouldn't allow them to open the blinds and let the sun in. Maybe it _was_ Mustang, then. Something must have been wrong.

Sighing, she walked over to the other side of the bar, and saw him lying there pathetically on one table. Whichever one he was, he was still in his uniform. The military would not be happy if it got back to them that an officer of theirs had taken to the drink this hard.

There was a half-filled schooner by his hand, and a few shot glasses were scattered a little further away from his head. His eyes were shut tightly, and a petulant little sulk had settled over his lips. If he hadn't been drunk, and if she hadn't just been woken up in the middle of the night, she would almost have laughed at the sight of it.

The barkeeper had followed her over. "Do you need any help getting him home, or are you alright like this?"

There was a moment in which she considered the offer. "No, I think I can handle him," she finally said, and grimly stepped forwards to shake him awake.


	15. Quick Thinking, Romanticism, and Keys

**Disclaimer:** I do not own any of the main characters in this story. For the main part, they belong to Arakawa Hiromu, but the Roy look-alike belongs to the many fanfic writers out there who blatantly OOC him. Kindest regards to you all, and thank you for supplying me with a character

**

* * *

****Chapter fifteen: Quick thinking, Romanticism, and keys**

A groan reluctantly escaped his lips as a pair of hands shook him. There should have been an adjective to describe how they shook him, but gently wasn't quite right, and it wasn't abrupt either. Just a pair of hands trying to shake him awake from where he was lying on the table. At least he wasn't lying on anything with points – something sharp could have gouged into him if the hands had been any harder. He allowed an eyelid to drift open and latch onto the face looking at him.

"Hawkeye?" he slurred, lifting his head from the table. The name seemed almost to slip from his mouth with the lack of distinguished enunciation it had. "What are you doing here?"

She set her mouth severely, and told him to get up. "It's time to go home."

Flame almost cursed. From the look on her face, she either knew that he was Flame, or she suspected. He hadn't so much as moved a single muscle in his face, but if he didn't do or say something soon, she'd keep on suspecting. Quashing the idea now would make it easier later. _Quick, Flame, quick! Think of something that Mustang would say!_

"I just need to finish reading this report. Give me five minutes to–" He looked down and feigned confusion at the lack of paperwork on his 'desk'. _Now, don't go too far with this,_ he instructed himself. _Mustang wouldn't behave like an idiot, even drunk._ In an attempt to go along with the thought, he looked up – still frowning – into her face. It looked as though she pitied him somewhat, but he still needed to finish it with something semi-rational to Mustangify his reaction. He sighed. "We're not at the office, are we?" The question was topped off by just a hint of moroseness in his tone.

Grim-faced, she shook her head, and kept on watched him quietly. "Come on," she finally repeated. "It's time to go home." From the defeat in her voice, hopefully it had worked. He didn't like that she sounded so hurt, though.

As he stood, he had to be careful not to appear too sober. Yes, good ol' Iron Liver had been doing its work again. He had been careful to drink enough that might make an inexperienced man drunk – or more specifically, the amount that had made Mustang drunk the other night – so that the bartender wouldn't be suspicious, but not so much that he would lose complete control of his senses. An astute watcher (_dammit! How does this person keep getting in here!?_) may wonder where the money came from for Flame to drink so much, but the money had just seemed to appear when Flame reached into his pocket. He hadn't taken much notice of it at first, but now he just realised the preposterousness of it. Had it really happened like that back at home?

When she noticed his tottering steps, Hawkeye stepped forward and pulled his arm over her shoulder, putting her other arm around his waist to help support his weight. Flame had to stifle some laughter when her hand gripped the most ticklish part of his side gently.

"No, no, I can do it myself," he told her, pushing away a little. He almost stopped himself from wincing at the way her fingers dug into his side when he spoke, but, remembering that he was supposed to be drunk, he let the expression roam over his face.

"With all due respect, sir, I don't think you can."

She guided him out of the bar and into the street, where the night air slapped into his face suddenly, surprising him with the fresh, cold feeling of what was quite possibly the early morning. Her movement dragged him further along the road, heading into the gloom.

The revelation hit him suddenly. "Do we have to _walk _the whole way home?"

"Unless you have your car here?"

He groaned. True, he may not really have been drunk, but the distance from Mustang's home to where he now was had been too long a walk for him on the way there, let alone on the way back. He had forgotten that Hawkeye didn't have her own car. Riza had one.

They plodded along in companionable silence. Well, it was companionable relative to how she usually treated him. Maybe there was already something between Hawkeye and Mustang after all. He'd just have to keep an eye out for it now.

Her voice broke through the darkness at some point in their expedition. "Why are you doing this, sir?"

Flame cheered silently. 'Sir.' She thought he was Mustang after all!

"Has something been troubling you?"

What was he going to say? He couldn't just leave it, unless he wanted her to ask about it some time when he was 'sober' – namely at work, which would mean she would ask Mustang and not himself, and the whole plan would fall apart. So what had been troubling him, then? Maybe he should have thought through an excuse as to why he'd been drinking before doing this. He didn't think she'd be very impressed by 'I just like the taste.' So what was he going to say? He'd better say something obscure before she thought he was ignoring her. "I just can't stand it anymore."

"Can't stand what, sir?"

Oh, yeah, the questions. He'd forgotten about the way non-committal answers usually drew more questions. Well, what was it that he couldn't stand, then? Wait, was that thought actually what he thought it was? Oh, if he was a genius before, he must have been a semi-evil-mastermind now.

"Flame can tell you all sorts of things about how he likes you, but I can't say anything because of the stupid military recommendations."

The silence was like torture. It was the sort of silence that made him wonder whether she was going to hit him or cry. Was she already crying? No, his arm was still draped over her shoulders, and they weren't moving anymore than they were one hundred paces back there. Unless she wasn't a sobbing sort of person. This Hawkeye struck him as somewhat less dramatic than Riza. She might just have been a weeper, where the tears came straight from her eyes without the dramatic breathing. He looked at her warily. There were no tears in her eyes, only a thoughtful look as though she was still considering what he had said.

He wondered what she was thinking. He'd just said something that would have had his own Riza practically eating his face off by now, and this one had almost no reaction to it. Something must have been wrong with these people!

When she finally spoke, it was just a mutter, as though not really that important. "We've spoken about this before."

Oh yes, they'd spoken about this be– what, _what, WHAT!?_ Spoken about this before!? Then she and Mustang had actually considered some sort of relationship? He tried not to stare as she kept on talking.

"Even though it isn't completely forbidden, a relationship provides a handhold for anyone who might have it in for one of us. I don't want someone with a grudge to try and kill you because of something I may have done." Her tone was conversational as she spoke – she may as well have been talking about the weather – but he could feel her awkwardness.

Flame stopped walking, and she had to stop too, or drag him along. "I don't want you to get hurt either," he said, truly meaning it. If anything happened to her . . . Despite all of the differences, the fact was that she was still Riza.

They were close enough as it was. He could see the emotion in her eyes. She was finding this just as hard as he was, he was sure, and he had never thought that Hawkeye would have it in her to be this emotional. He cupped her chin gently with his hand, and drew her face closer, lowering his lips towards hers . . . only for her to yank her face away.

A frown had spread over her features. "Have you not been listening to what I'm saying? We've fought in a bloody _war,_ sir – we don't have people who 'don't like us', we have _enemies_. People who would kill us." Although her voice hadn't risen past an angered whisper, the timing had gone.

He had been so close to getting Mustang a little further in the game – not to mention himself – and she had to bring life and death into this. This wasn't the time for life and death! This was the time for life and _love_. Romance was what this world needed. That's why it seemed so dreary. Not romance purely in the sense of taking someone out to dinner and buying them flowers, but more in the way of thinking.

It could be that that was what was wrong with this world. The Revolutions may never have happened. There was no change over from Classicism to Romanticism, and the people here were lacking because of it. And Romanticism was no good without plain and simple Romantics every now and then, which reminded him: if he ever got home, he'd have to take Riza out to dinner to apologise for being gone for so long.

So they kept walking on, back towards Mustang's home. This time she made him walk on his own, but when he stumbled – it might just have been on purpose, but she didn't have to know that – she wordlessly supported him again. Instead of just feeling pensive, the air had a more static, angry feel to it. Yes, this was what Flame was more used to around her. But he had been so close!!

Then there they were, in front of Mustang's house, Flame having thought over how he'd manage to get his Mission to work at all if she was going to be like this. Maybe it was just a matter of publicity. Of course, there hadn't been any people out in the street where they had spoken before, but it was a public area. She was right to be cautious – Riza could be like that too, sometimes, but never for too long. Not with his convincing her, anyway.

"Do you have your key, sir?"

"Yeah," he said, pulling the spare key from his pocket. Mustang had seen about getting a new one cut when they decided that Flame didn't need to be babysat anymore. So had Havoc, after some convincing.

Other than the scraping of metal on metal, there was a general quiet as he twisted the key in the lock. Was she just going to turn and leave him now? The door swung open, and he took one small step in, just inside the doorway.

"Are you going to be alright?"

He chewed his lip to add some proper 'thinking time' to the pause. This wasn't just the 'can you make it to your bed' sort of alright, but a more permanent sort of thing. Well, it seemed that he couldn't re-use the drinking excuse, except in dire need. It wasn't like it had amounted to much anyway. "I'll be fine. I think I just needed to get it all out."

She nodded and turned to go.

"Hawkeye?" It sounded rushed, and a little too loud. Flame was relying on Mustang's early bedtimes to stop him from waking up and hearing this through his door or something of the like. It wouldn't do him any good to have Mustang turn up to work and reveal to Hawkeye that the man she had rescued from alcoholism the night before had actually been Flame. None of them would ever trust him again, and the Mission would fall to pieces.

She faced him again, waiting for her orders.

Now, _this_, he had to execute perfectly, or otherwise pass up completely for now. Half done wouldn't work. Half done could be suicide – goodbye to him, and goodbye to his Little Boys. He looked to the ground at his feet, and very quietly, as though almost to himself, mumbled "I'm sorry," hopefully just a little too quietly for her to hear him properly.

And there it was. The frown appeared on her face, and she leant forwards slightly, lips parting deliciously to say "Excuse me, sir?" Of course, being the planned person he was – and seeing as this was going exceptionally well to plan – she barely had time to form the final word before he leant forwards and claimed her lips.

When was the last time he had kissed a woman? No, no, no! That didn't come out right! When was the last time he had kissed someone? Wait, that wasn't right either – Flame himself could vouch for his purely heterosexuality, and knew what he meant! The point was that he hadn't so much as touched anyone with any sexual intent since he had been ripped out of his own world. Except for those few times he managed to get close to Hawkeye, and a few of those girls whose numbers he still meant to call had gotten pretty close to him.

It might have been his imagination, but in the second before she pulled away – he would have thought she wouldn't have lasted a split second, but he had felt his heart beat once eerily in his throat before she pulled away, and that was close enough to a second for him – he thought that he felt her kiss him back, just a very little.

Nevertheless, when she pulled away, she was pouting angrily. "I told you before, sir, it's too dangerous. Don't you remember the hostage situation in the West a few years ago? They're still using it as an example against intra-office relationships now."

He let his eyes slip to the ground again, trying not to let the grin he felt show on his face. It was as though he had been dead, and that was his re-introduction to life. "I'm sorry," he mumbled again, not realising that he was repeating his actions previously. Her scowl alerted him to something being wrong, and he stuck a wistful look on his face. "I'll see you at the office tomorrow. Goodnight Lieutenant. I apologise for waking you up."

"Goodnight, Colonel," she replied, and trotted down the street towards her apartment building.

Flame closed the door, allowing his grin to finally fall in place. Maybe he wouldn't be able to try the bar trick again, but it had definitely taught him something. He wasn't completely off the mark in thinking that something was there. Now he had to figure out how to get past all of this 'no' business and get the two of them to admit and act upon their love for one another.


	16. Libraries, Cafeterias and Murderers

**Disclaimer:** I do not own any of the main characters in this story. For the main part, they belong to Arakawa Hiromu, but the Roy look-alike belongs to the many fanfic writers out there who blatantly OOC him. Kindest regards to you all, and thank you for supplying me with a character

**Notes:** Sorry for the wait – I had Schoolies to go to! I'm already working on the next chapter, though, so hopefully it will be finished by the weekend.

**

* * *

****Chapter sixteen: Libraries, cafeterias and murderers**

_Flame closed the door, allowing his grin to finally fall in place. Maybe he wouldn't be able to try the bar trick again, but it had definitely taught him something. He wasn't completely off the mark in thinking that something was there. Now he had to figure out how to get past all of this 'no' business and get the two of them to admit and act upon their love for one another._

Still standing at the door and grinning, Flame turned to make his way back to the guest room he was sleeping in. He passed by Mustang's door quickly, but stopped abruptly, his eyes wide. There had definitely been some sort of mumbling there as he walked past. Was Mustang still awake? If he had heard Flame and Hawkeye, then maybe he was sulking again . . . That wouldn't turn out well for anyone concerned.

Hesitantly, Flame eased the door open. The light was out, and a huddled form under the blankets seemed like Mustang. Maybe he was just asleep–

"GoawayFlame."

It was slurred with the sounds of sleep, and his words were all run together, but Flame heard him and promptly deflated. Mustang had heard, and now was sulking in his bed. Flame opened the door further and stepped through. "Look, I'm just doing it to help you out."

"Don'tneedhelp."

"I'm sure, and what do you call pining away whenever someone else is with her, but never actually doing anything yourself?"

"Justgotothelibrary. Icanfinishthismyself."

"What where, now?" Flame stared at the bundle. Not once had Mustang opened his eyes in their little conversation, and now he was telling Flame to go to the library? Was this some sort of expression he hadn't heard before?

"Havoc, canyoujuststophim?"

Havoc? Where was Havoc? Havoc wasn't here, was he–? Oh. Flame was embarrassed at his own stupidity. Of course, Mustang was sleep talking. There was no reason why the man couldn't be a sleep talker, but why couldn't he find something more interesting to sleep talk about than spooking Flame to death? A juicy secret, or something that he would be able to use in the future.

"Alright, Mustang. I'll go to the library," Flame said, and he rolled his eyes on his way out, pulling the door shut as he left. He didn't know why he had bothered replying to the still unconscious Mustang – it wasn't like he could hear what he said.

Flame went to his room thoughtfully. Yes, other than that scare, this was a highly satisfactory night.

* * *

Since the previous week, Hawkeye had seemed to be avoiding him ever so slightly. Not that she was never around the office anymore – it just happened that when everyone else got up for lunch, she leisurely rose to join them, sending no more than a quick glance towards him. 

Had he done something wrong? Or, more accurately, had Flame done something wrong? Mustang looked over to where the other man was munching on a chicken sandwich happily. No, if Flame had done something, the results would have been more catastrophic – it would have ended up with him going crazy again, and Flame wouldn't have been so casual about it.

It was possible that he was just looking too deep into the matter – for all he knew, Hawkeye might just want to spend more time with the guys sometimes. She wasn't avoiding him. She was just strengthening other friendships. She wasn't avoiding him. She wasn't–

Was there any reason that she couldn't strengthen friendships with them when he was around? Anything . . ? Anything? No, there wasn't. Mustang stood and looked over at Flame, who was still ploughing his way through that sandwich. "Do you want to come and eat with the others?"

Flame looked up. "Eat with the others?" A grin spread across his face, and Mustang didn't know whether to take that as a sign that they should just stay as they were, or to ignore it and go. "Yeah sure, why not?"

Nevertheless, the two of them left the office and made their way towards the cafeteria. Mustang couldn't remember the last time he had actually been in there himself – the food was nothing to boast about, and the tea wasn't strong enough to do more than replenish his liquids. He had stopped coming when he didn't have to, but maybe it had changed since then, and it wasn't so bad anymore.

He pushed the cafeteria door open and stepped in. Soldiers were bustling their way around the hall, chatting amiably with one another while biting into crunchy rolls – the crumbs flew everywhere. As he peered over one shoulder to look at the man's tray, he found that he couldn't identify everything on the plate, especially not that strange red paste that seemed to have been untouched so far. Ugh, now he remembered more clearly why he didn't come here. He turned around, grabbing Flame by the arm and walked back out of the hall.

"Why did you do that?" Flame asked indignantly as they headed back towards the office. "I was already halfway through the line up, and I'm positive that I could smell _bacon_ in there. Do you know how long it is since I've had _bacon_?"

"I wouldn't count on that bacon being any good for you," Mustang muttered. "Not from this place, anyway."

"Pfft, it's bacon – it's never good for you, it just tastes nice."

He rolled his eyes. "Mmmm, greasy." The thought of eating that garbage was preposterous. None of the people employed here seemed to know anything about cooking, which was why there was the cafeteria – so that they could have some decent food. It was just a pity that "the people employed here" included those who worked in the cafeteria.

"The grease is the best part of it," Flame continued, beginning to whine.

Mustang could barely hold back the shudder. Just the idea of all of that fat slithering down his throat was enough to make him feel queasy. By the time he reached his office door and pushed it open, he had gained a hold of his convulsions and convinced himself that he would never return to the cafeteria again.

Also by the time he reached his office door and pushed it open, Mustang realised that the phone that had been ringing for the past few steps was the one on his desk, and he jogged the distance between the door and the phone, picking it up before the person on the other end hung up. This was _another_ reason why not to go to the cafeteria.

"Hello, Colonel Mustang speaking."

"Colonel Mustang, busy are you?" The voice on the other end asked. "Are you sure you don't want me to call back another time?" Maybe he should have stayed at the cafeteria. The blatant sarcasm dripped as disgustingly as the bacon Mustang had been warning Flame away from only minutes before – the man speaking was an officer that Mustang had occasional contact with. Needless to say, he wasn't particularly pleasant, and any necessary conversation with the man was short-lived where possible. Unfortunately, he was a higher rank than Mustang, so he had to put up with it.

"No sir, I apologise," Mustang answered impatiently.

"Good. I have a mission to be assigned to you and your squad. The research is already done, we just need someone to go in and apprehend our man. The information will be sent to you shortly. Thank you." A click on the other side alerted Mustang to the fact that the man had just hung up on him.

Well, another mission. That would be something else to do, at least – it had been getting too quiet for comfort, and he needed to preoccupy himself with some action for a while.

Flame finally spoke up, after having watched Mustang's side of the conversation. "What was that about?" He wandered over to the makeshift desk they had prepared for him.

"We have another mission."

"Can I help out?" he asked quickly. True, Flame hadn't been too happy about the whole idea that paperwork was the majority of their job, but he had been doing splendidly at coping. He deserved a reward for his effort. "And not just shooting staples at people, either, actually doing something."

Mustang paused, mentally testing out an idea. In theory it could work, but . . . but this was _Flame_. Ah, he hadn't done anything too bad recently – there was no reason not to give him a chance. Mustang smiled. "You know how to snap your fingers, right?"

Slowly, a grin appeared on Flame's face in response. "Hey, if I know anything about anything, it's sex, alcohol, and fire."

* * *

Yawning as he walked back into the office, Havoc let his cigarette hang limply from his lip. It had only burnt halfway through, and he didn't want to waste it by putting it out now. Hopefully Mustang wouldn't notice in time to tell him to get rid of it. If he got to his desk quickly and started working, it was possible that Mustang wouldn't even realise he was still smoking until the cigarette was burnt out. 

"Everyone, I've got some news. And Havoc, put out your cigarette before the smoke fills the office."

So much for that, then. Havoc took one last drag before grinding the cigarette butt into the ashtray he kept on his desk for times such as these. Just because of a few pesky co-workers with respiratory problems, he couldn't have his favourite mode of relaxation made available to him. It was a crime!

He leant back against his desk and looked over to Mustang. What was this news? Something interesting, hopefully. The last time this had happened, it had been 'They've just had a fire in the East Wing – extinguished now – and we're needed to help complete the paperwork the people over there were meant to do, since they've all been sent home.' Havoc wished that the original copies of the documents had been burnt along with the ones to be signed – he hadn't gotten back home until eight o'clock that night, and with a stack of reports still waiting for him when he got back to work, too.

Mustang's arms were folded over his chest as he surveyed the room. "We've been given another field assignment," he said calmly. "The reports arrived a few minutes before you did, and a copy of the information you'll need to know is on everyone's desks. Please acquaint yourself with all of the specifics as soon as you've finished your other work for the day." Mustang turned away to go to his own desk, and Havoc took it as a signal that he'd finished. "Flame will be accompanying us." Alright, _now_ he had finished.

Havoc plopped down into his chair and rushed through his reports. Listening to peoples' ideas about missions and their research was well and good, but he preferred being on a mission himself. Provided that he wasn't about to get killed, of course. The clock was just striking three as he picked up the folder on his desk and opened it, perusing the documents carefully.

His eyes fell on one particular piece of information, and he looked up in shock. Mustang had no idea what he was doing, of course, because they had been working for hours since he informed them about the mission, so Havoc would have to tell him what was wrong, right out.

"Sir, this man killed the last squad who were sent after him!"

Mustang looked up, pen still in hand. "Hmm?"

Bending the cover of the folder back behind it, Havoc read directly from the report. " 'Disregard for his own safety led to the disabling of his right leg, but despite this, the perpetrator executed the soldiers aiming for his capture.' He massacred them!"

"Yes," Mustang agreed. "Which is why we've been put on the case."

Havoc felt dizzy. They'd been put on a case _because_ the last group had been disposed of? "But– but– but– but that was a group of _ten_ soldiers! If he could kill ten that easily – with a leg disabled! – then how will twenty or thirty cause any problem if he's been given time to rest??"

The look he received was flat, but by now the rest of the office had tuned into the conversation and were looking askance at Mustang. Life was a precious commodity these days – it was hard enough to get one, let alone to have another as a back-up.

"Kill? As in dead?"

"I don't know about you, but I don't want to die."

"How long ago was this? We should have heard about it by now."

"It was only a few hours ago," Mustang interrupted, "which is why we're studying up on the case now. We're going in to find him tomorrow morning, _not_," and he looked at Havoc, "allowing him time to recuperate. Besides, we have two alchemists and two ace-guns. Now, everyone finish your work so that you have the time to study those documents properly before we go in."

Two alchemists? Oh, he wasn't going to allow Flame in on this, was he? Either that, or he was appointing Fullmetal to join them, and Havoc knew as good as any of the others in that office that there was no way Fullmetal would join them unless it went along with his own work – which was currently other worlds. How did that fit into this? In no way whatsoever, unless Flame discovered the way to get home in the middle of this, which would only leave them with one less man anyway.

Sullenly, Havoc looked back at the paper in his hands. This wasn't going to go well. He knew it. Right down in the pit of his stomach, a little voice spoke to him – the one that usually told him when he was hungry – saying that none of them were going to come out of it alive. Of course, why should he trust his hunger-pain voice to tell him when he was going to die? Half the time it still said he was hungry when he couldn't physically eat another bite.

Over his shoulder, he could feel someone leaning near him, and a second later, Breda's voice sounded. "So what did this guy do in the first place, to have so many people after him?"

Havoc looked down at the sheet. "Murder," he replied glumly.


	17. Bell Towers, Dawning Ideas, and Endings

**Disclaimer:** I do not own any of the main characters in this story. For the main part, they belong to Arakawa Hiromu, but the Roy look-alike belongs to the many fanfic writers out there who blatantly OOC him. Kindest regards to you all, and thank you for supplying me with a character

**Notes:** Please forgive me – I haven't written action properly before, and I hope that this didn't turn out too bad. It is a big, one, though. Oh, and I did finish it on Friday, so it was before the weekend, but FFN wouldn't let me login for some reason.

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* * *

****Chapter seventeen: Bell towers, dawning ideas, and endings**

Another murderer, another mission. Was humankind ever going to stop being so cruel to itself? It seemed that every time they cleared the miscreants out, more came back, just as heinous. Of course, they could never fully clear out Amestris – or even Central – of the criminals, because there were so many wrongdoers, and only small numbers of military people to carry out the assignments. But then they didn't receive all that many assignments to begin with.

Another murderer, another mission – another conveniently placed bell tower. Hawkeye shouldered her rifle and begun to climb the stairs before her. The killer had to be in this section of the city, didn't he? It made getting him a whole lot easier, at least, provided that he didn't run around too much.

She still remembered Flame's surprise at hearing that she was going to be the sniper. "So you _are_ a gunman – sorry, gun_woman_ – in this world, too? I had started to think that you didn't actually use your pistols, and they were just for show." Hawkeye had listened in horror to the explanation of her counterpart from his world, and impressed upon him just how unprofessional it was to shoot at co-workers. Not only would it count as insubordination, but the woman was wasting military supplies, and while bullets might not be needed in the peacetimes, who knew when the next war would be? It was all good and well that she seemed to shoot the whole Headquarters to pieces and not actually do anything more than threaten to hurt people, but a shortage of bullets during wartime was a crisis that only meant a higher casualty rate on her own side.

Still climbing, Hawkeye shook her head in amazement at the stupidity of people. She might have been through an occasion or two where she needed to take out her frustration on something, but even just going to the shooting range would stop the waste also being insubordination, and it would put the used bullets to a cause which might actually end up with less being required. Accuracy was always a bonus in skirmishes – what was the need of constantly practicing on people, if all you learnt how to do was aim above their heads or near them? Misses were still misses, no matter how close they came.

The part of the afternoon that had amazed her most was when the others laughed and begged Flame to tell them about the other versions of their co-workers. Never asking for their own equivalent, to avoid the humiliation, but they eventually found out about most of the office. The loudest laughs had been at Havoc's counterpart's inability to hold onto a date for longer than a day, due to Flame himself. That, at least, had helped Hawkeye to understand why 'Riza's' temper was held on such short reins.

She finally reached the top of the tower, and lowered the rifle to the ground. A large opening stood before her, and she briefly looked out to check her surroundings.

The city had opened itself up underneath that window. A wide area of built up terrain, just starting to mill with the life inside of the buildings. A marketplace stood over to one side, the stalls only now being set up. She was too far away to be able to distinguish particular wares from others, but the stall-holders each guarded their produce ruthlessly from those either side of them, looking to perhaps slide an item from their neighbour's stall to their own. One lone car strolled leisurely down a street – another military person forced to wake up hideously early just to get to work on time – until it drove out of view. Headquarters itself was behind her, a kilometre or two closer to the centre of the city, but her target wasn't so far away.

If she looked down one of the closer streets, she could see the house they had discovered belonged to the murderer. Around one corner of the street was Havoc and his squad, and around the opposite end waited Mustang with Flame. If her sense of time hadn't been set askew, the man they were waiting for would soon emerge from the house and walk into one of the traps set for him, and if he managed to find another route, the other squads placed around the street would inevitably catch him.

She knelt down and began to set up her hidey-hole so that she could stay there comfortably for as long as was needed. Hawkeye's job was to stop him from getting close enough to any of the soldiers to do them harm, if she could do so without hitting their soldiers. They had been ordered not to kill him if they were able to capture him – one of the higher ups wanted to analyse the man's mind.

Since she was so far away, there was the problem that she couldn't do anything to help if he was indoors, which was why the traps were set far enough away from his house that he wouldn't know they were there until he had moved too far to get back safely.

Movement caught her attention. The door had just swung open, and he was emerging. She crouched down, clinging to her rifle, and made sure that she could see him through the cross hair.

* * *

Flame's fingers twitched by his side. They were encased in familiar gloves – familiar, despite his not having worn them in some time. He had spent the night before on target practice, just making sure he was still able to aim properly after such a long break. It wouldn't do to be in the middle of apprehending the man and accidentally set Mustang's soldiers on fire. 

They had been waiting in place for almost ten minutes – long, awkward minutes at that – when the soldier on watch announced that the target had just left his house. The tension of each person waiting doubled, and Flame held his hands ready. They were supposed to arrest the man, if possible, but they were still ready to put up a fight.

An anxious silence overcame the men as they listened, and soon the sound of hobbling footsteps became audible. The person walking came closer, and finally rounded the corner.

Mustang stepped forwards. "You are under arrest of the–"

Before he had managed to speak out even half of the phrase, the man before them turned and bolted awkwardly back around the corner. Flame ran forwards after him, as did a few of the soldiers, all ignoring Mustang's call to wait. The first man to reach the corner stopped and dropped to the ground, a gargling sound emitting from his throat as he fell. Flame's stride slowed down as he looked in shock at the small pool of blood collecting around the man's throat, but he kept going, thankfully not so close to the wall as he rounded the corner.

The suspect stood just by the corner, teeth bared in a snarl, and bloodied kitchen knife in his hand. As Flame approached him, his arm moved swiftly and the knife flew through the air towards Flame. He barely had time to register the light gleaming off the blade before he moved, and where did that get him? Two inches away from where he had been. Luckily, that was enough that instead of imbedding itself in his chest, the knife protruded from his left arm agonisingly.

Flame's yell was enough to cause the men behind him to leap forwards in an attempt to do something to help. One confused soldier pointed his gun at the culprit, and another sprung forwards to wrench the knife from Flame's arm in an attempt to 'help'. The curses that leapt from his mouth were not for the weak-hearted.

As the soldier took the knife from Flame's arm, the offender also screamed and dropped to the ground, clutching at his leg. It couldn't just have been sympathy pains, because soon enough, blood began to stain the leg of his pants.

Mustang had obviously finally followed along, because now he was standing by Flame, trying again to tell the criminal that he was under arrest. The man on the ground only writhed, and soon another soldier leant down to clip some handcuffs on him. The click of the cuffs around one wrist, and then the fall to the ground. The criminal jumped up and limped away.

Frowning, Flame looked down at the fallen soldier. A few of the others pursued the man down the street, and into a small alleyway, but Flame watched as Mustang got a soldier to roll over the fallen man. He grimaced at the knife handle sticking out from between his ribs. The man was already glassy-eyed, and someone tried to pull his eyelids down to stop the corpse from staring at them.

"What are we supposed to do if every time we get near him, he stabs someone?" Flame asked Mustang angrily.

Mustang looked down, irritation eminent in his features. "Obviously we can't get near enough to arrest him, so we'll just have to kill him." The blandness of his voice contrasted the emotion in his face, and Flame looked on worriedly. His arm still hurt him like crazy, but luckily it was his left arm – he was right handed. He could still snap his fingers.

"Crispy, or medium rare?"

The look Mustang gave him was exhausted. "Now isn't the time for joking around, Flame."

Flame shrugged. "I just thought the mood needed some lightening up."

Giving a sharp order to the other soldiers still with them, Mustang started walking away, demanding a few men go and make Havoc and the other team aware of the situation. "Are you alright, there?"

He winced at trying to move the arm when a stabbing pain went through it. Funny that. "It hurts like hell, but I can handle it," Flame muttered. He did have two arms, after all, and it wasn't like he'd need his left one for anything any time soon, was it? And that throbbing feeling wasn't anything much. Or the way that his vision blacked over for a second when he took a step forwards. He shook his head to clear his sight. "I'm fine."

Mustang raised an eyebrow, but nodded anyway. "Just don't let him get too close to you again."

* * *

This was more aggravating than anything Hawkeye had experienced before. Down on the ground, she could see the men running around, but the one man she needed a clear view on had scurried his way into an alley. She could see that by the way it was shaped, if he followed it through, and twisted into another alleyway soon after, he'd emerge fairly close to his own house. She had to keep an eye on the exits, or otherwise a clear shot wouldn't be likely enough to happen between now and the end of the skirmish.

She had managed to put a bullet through his leg earlier, but not soon enough to stop him from injuring Mustang. Or Flame. She couldn't tell from this far away what either of them were saying, so she had no ready-made distinction she could rely on to tell the two apart. The problem was that the leg she had injured was the one that had been injured the day before – he still had one good one to escape with, although he must have been in agony.

It had been hard to see what happened with the soldier after that, but before she could register his movements, he had managed to get into that alleyway, into which had followed six or seven of the stupidest men she had ever laid eyes on. Didn't they realise that he was going to get them one by one?

Wait! Someone was emerging from the end of the alley. She strained her eyes, trying to see whether that was the blue uniform of a soldier, or him. The person – no, two people! – finally stepped out completely. Some choice words escaped her mouth: he was using a soldier as a shield. Her hands clenched onto the rifle. If he so much as tossed aside that other man for a second, she'd have a bullet through where she estimated his heart to be. If the reptile so much as had one.

A frustrated yell expelled itself from her when the door to his house slammed shut. She couldn't hear it, but she knew that the shield was just being killed. If he was alive when the murderer was using him before.

She couldn't really do anything from her post at the moment, but if he so much as set foot outside of that building, he was going to be dead before he took a second step.

* * *

Flame jogged over to Havoc, who had come with his squads from the other end of the street to meet up in the middle. He gritted his teeth at the pain that accompanied every jerking motion, and realised that he must have looked homicidal by the time he reached the other man – he sure felt it.

"He's entered the house again. We either need to get him while he's in there, without getting close enough for him to kill any more of our men, or drive him out so that Hawkeye can get a clear shot."

"In the house again?" Flame groaned. That meant that they'd have to go somewhere within his vicinity, if they planned on going in. Wasn't there any easy way out of this? He didn't want to come out with one arm and one leg like Fullmetal.

"Yeah. The other team is guarding the back, and the side entrance, and we'll just need to keep en eye on the front, and on all of the windows to make sure he doesn't sneak out. Then we should send someone in."

Flame nodded. "That sounds pretty well done, but aren't we aiming to get him outside?"

A frown spread across Havoc's face. "Yeah, that's what I said. So that Hawkeye can get a clear shot, we need to get him outside."

"So what is closeting him up in there going to do? Not get him outside, I'll tell you that. If we storm through the house, in too large numbers for him to be able to pick us off like he has been doing, then he'll have to run, and he'll go right out in the open where he can die."

It was like dawn spreading over Havoc's face – not exactly as bright as in the middle of the day, but he didn't look so stupid anymore. He looked at Flame in surprise, as though he was wondering how he could even manage to come up with such a strategy, and then ran off towards Mustang. Flame sighed and walked back over, refusing to so much as jog.

When he reached them, Havoc was just explaining that they should storm through. "It'll scare him right out into the middle of the street."

"And don't forget to leave one exit completely open," Flame butted in. "If we cover all exits, he has no way out, so leave one completely open, and he'll have to go through it."

"Unless he figures out that it's a trap," Mustang said sharply. "Which is why we'll have a few men around it, and as soon as he approaches, they are to run outside, hopefully leading him out there, and they should be far enough away from him before Hawkeye shoots that she'll easily be able to tell which one is him."

The three of them looked at one another to see if there were any objections at all. No one spoke against the idea, and Mustang told Havoc to spread the word around to his troops. For convenience's sake, they'd leave the front exit 'lightly guarded', Mustang's group would come in through the back, and Havoc's would come in through the side. "Flame, you're in Havoc's group."

So it was just like that that Flame found himself staring at the side door as though it was an old enemy. He _would_ charge through it and scare some murderer out of his wits enough that he ran out to his doom. Yes, he was entirely capable of it. So why did he feel like running up that bell tower and hiding behind Hawkeye? No, he couldn't do that. She would shoot him. Well, actually she wouldn't – Riza would. He groaned. Now he just missed Riza more.

"Ready, men?" Havoc asked, looking over the group. "As soon as the Colonel's group start to move, this line moves straight for the door" - Flame gulped - "and this line moves for that window, and this line moves for the other window. Ready?"

Various murmurs filled the air. Not loud enough for the occupant of the house to hear, but rather just loud enough that Flame suddenly felt like jumping behind that bush by the fence. But he stayed in the line he had been placed in. Not at the head, luckily enough, but near enough to it that he had something to be worried about. Havoc seemed confidant enough, though. Funny that he'd be drawing confidence off a guy like Havoc when it came to it. Wasn't Flame the one who was usually full of confidence? Wait, he was! He straightened up and cleared his throat. No more of that trembling nonsense. He'd face this head on, and wouldn't give a second thought to the danger.

Movement caught his eye – the other group had rushed forwards. The man in front of him started towards the door, and Flame joined him in the pursuit. The door crashed open, and they stumbled through. What was he supposed to do now he was in here? Oh, that's right, search the house for the madman.

"Don't forget to search upstairs," Mustang's voice called.

Upstairs? No problem. "You four, come with me," Flame yelled at the soldiers milling around near him.

They bounded up the staircase; two in a room to search it while the other two guarded their backs, so that the man couldn't sneak up from behind. Guns loaded and waiting to be fired, of course.

"Two civilian bodies in this room, sir, but the killer isn't there," a soldier said as they left the room.

Flame frowned. Either the house had been inhabited by someone else before the man got there, or he had murdered his own family, too. Whichever it was, he didn't want to know. "So check the other rooms, then," he snapped.

The soldier clicked his heels together and moved the group on towards the next room. Flame followed uneasily. When they came back out, the report was the same – without the two civilians, however.

The entire upstairs was searched, and the man still wasn't found. "They must have flushed him out, already. Either that, or they have him cornered. Back downstairs, men," Flame told them assertively. They all jogged back down the stairs, Flame following behind them – he didn't want to get to the bottom of the stairs and have the killer pop around the corner and–

He stopped short as a handcuffed arm wrapped about his torso and pulled him back. A voice spoke in his ear quietly. "Twelve down, thirty-odd to go," it said, before the knife was driven through his chest, and Flame fell to the ground, eyes still open.

* * *

"We can't find the killer, sir." 

Mustang frowned. Why hadn't the man surfaced anywhere? He was starting to get edgy. "Search the place again. We don't want to leave him in here to go on killing while we look for him somewhere else. If we can't find him this time round, have everyone evacuate the building, and regroup."

The soldiers set off to look around the house again. Feeling a little stupid, but not wanting to leave any possible hiding place unchecked, Mustang looked through the kitchen, checking the pantry, every cupboard, and even the icebox to see if he was there, but no angry murderer surfaced. He joined another group in the living room, where they looked about frantically behind every piece of furniture, even opening a heavy chest to see if he was hiding inside, waiting to spring out.

When the men returned, still nothing had been found, and they trotted outside to regroup.

"Sir?"

Mustang turned around to see an ashen faced soldier. He frowned. "What is it?"

The man gulped. "Y-your brother. He– he w– he was _killed_, sir."

Flame was what, now? This was not the right time for him to be playing tricks. Mustang's eyes narrowed. "Show me."

Spinning on his heel, the soldier asked Mustang to follow him, and led him to the base of the staircase. Mustang only had to look up to see the body splayed over the landing above, one arm hanging limply over the top edge of the stairs.

Right from the bottom of his stomach, he felt sick. He ascended up the staircase, ignoring the blood dripping from the landing onto the step below, and rolled over what looked exactly like his own body. A nasty dark red stain had manifested over Flame's uniform, centralising at a gash in the left breast. His head lolled awkwardly, and his eyes didn't move, even when Mustang waved his hand in front of Flame's face.

"Sir?"

Shocked somewhat, Mustang rose his eyes to the soldier standing on the stairs.

"We should go. If the killer's still in he–" He cut off as a scream sounded from outside the building.

Still feeling dazed, Mustang jumped up. "Come on," he said commandingly, and they hurried down the stairs and outside.

The soldiers sombrely stood together, looking distinctly smaller in number than they had been when they first began. The earlier tension seemed to have drained somewhat, however, and Havoc stood over a body on the ground, which he was watching carefully. He looked up to see Mustang arriving and grinned wearily. "Hawkeye got him in the end."

Mustang nodded, his eyes still on the cause of all of this.

A crease appeared above Havoc's brow. "Is something wrong?"

It took him a moment to open his lips. It was as though his tongue was glued to the roof of his mouth, and didn't want to talk. "He got Flame."

"Pardon?" The astonishment in Havoc's voice was evident. It was like Mustang had just told him the impossible was possible – Flame was too stupid to die.

"He got Flame," Mustang repeated. "Go see, if you want. Top of the stairs."

Havoc paused. "No, I–" His eyes widened. "Is that your blood, or Flame's?" Grimacing, Mustang wiped his hands together. The sleeves had gotten a little wet when they brushed against . . . the body . . . "Look, sir, we're done here. We have a whole lot of casualties to report, and we got the man we needed. Maybe we should just go home and have a drink or two."

He sighed, ignoring the sick feeling in his gut. Wiping the expression from his face, Mustang raised his voice. "Alright, men, time to go home."


	18. Epilogue

**Disclaimer:** I do not own any of the main characters in this story. For the main part, they belong to Arakawa Hiromu, but the Roy look-alike belongs to the many fanfic writers out there who blatantly OOC him. Kindest regards to you all, and thank you for supplying me with a character

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****Epilogue: Wandering thoughts, thighs, and shocked Fuhrers**

A blue sea swarmed about the mound before them, silent as a sign of respect for the man buried there. Only a small percentage of them actually knew where the man was from – the others only thought that they knew. Flame hadn't seen the need to tell anyone other than those inside the office of his origins.

As the crowd dwindled, those leaving paused by the dead man's look-alike and offered brief condolences before moving on. "We're sorry," was the usual message, but some felt the need to add "your brother was a good man." It was almost enough to make Hawkeye laugh. True, the sound would have been cold and mirthless more than anything else, but it would be laughter, none the less.

When she'd been told that Flame had been killed, she hadn't known what to think. The man might have been an idiot – a flaming imbecile, no pun intended – but he had started to grow on her in the last few weeks. His arrogance had managed to temper itself, and he didn't seem so instantly objectionable as he had been. He was still the most irritating influence on her life, but he had improved from the hideous creature he had at first been.

She stood by Mustang's side, hearing those misplaced condolences and unsure of what to do or say, herself. Mustang didn't seem terribly upset about it, merely quiet and contemplative. After all, Flame had only been masquerading as his brother – he didn't have any brothers at all, to tell the truth. Mustang's reaction toward the situation made it seem as though he hadn't expected it possible, let alone likely, that Flame would die before they found a way to get him back home.

Looking at him curiously, Hawkeye had to wonder just what he was thinking. He'd been through this before with other friends, but they had been more long-standing, somewhat permanent relationships, whereas this one had barely been in existence for more than a few months. "Sir?"

"Mmm?" he grunted.

"What are you thinking?"

A frown formed on his face, as she waited for his response. It took him a moment to reply, but eventually the words came out. "I wonder what's going to happen to his friends. From his world, I mean. I don't think that they would have known that he was just missing for all of this time, and now suddenly he's dead. More likely, whatever they thought before will still be whatever they're thinking now. But before he would have been able to get back and dispel the thoughts they had had about his being . . . dead. And now, he won't be able to do that. They'll have to keep on thinking whatever they had before." Mustang looked down at his shoes. "He spoke so much about getting back that I sort of figured the others on his side would know it too. Somehow."

Hawkeye shifted her feet beneath her. Flame's utter confidence that he would get back had been fine until it seemed as though he wouldn't be able to. Most of them had hoped that the Elrics would come across something in their studies to help him at least start to understand how he might cross back to his own world. The fact that they hadn't seemed to get anything at all had been a sort of sign of the hopelessness there was to the idea.

Maybe he just wasn't supposed to go back home. Hawkeye didn't think that the two 'Colonel Mustangs' could have survived together for a whole lot longer, purely due to the fact that it created an imbalance. They were one too many of the same person in one place, and that couldn't have been good for the equilibriums of the separate worlds – if living with her father had taught her anything as a child, it had been how to think scientifically.

So maybe Flame had to die. What would have happened if he hadn't? Well, she couldn't begin to puzzle that out, but one of her initial thoughts at hearing he was gone was 'at least it wasn't the Colonel.' It had made her feel guilty for a while – she still did lament that idea a little – but she knew that she couldn't have done anything about it, and brushed the thought away. Well, shoved the thought away, really, but all the same it was gone. Mostly.

"If I ever come to understand how I brought him in the first place," Mustang began suddenly, shaking Hawkeye out of her thoughts, "then maybe I can use that to make an adaptation of the array, which will take me over to his world and see what all of the fuss was about."

She grimaced. He had better not get carried away by the idea. If the Colonel disappeared without leaving any word behind, she'd at least know where he was – or where he supposedly was – but the stress of it all would be more than she could imagine.

"Would you come with me, if I knew how to?"

Come with him? To this other world? What to do – break the news to the other counterparts? "Sir, if you knew the way there _and_ back, I would come with you."

He smiled. "Of course. I wouldn't go without finding a way to get back."

They stood by the grave, waiting for the last people to say goodbye and take their leave. Finally, when no one else was left, the two of them headed back to the car. Hawkeye climbed into the driver's seat and waited for Mustang to get into the passenger's seat. When the door clicked shut behind him, she glanced over, noting the thoughtful look still on his face.

"Time to get you home, I think," she told him.

He blinked, before looking up with a devious smile in place on his visage. "And how do _you_ know where I live? My, my, there _must_ be something going on here."

She snorted. "Yes, must be. Or very soon will be."

The shocked look on his face was enough to make her laugh, but soon enough the devious look returned. "Well, we'd best get moving, then. Wouldn't want to wreck my car, now."

* * *

He opened his eyes blearily. A blurred landscape sat before him, shadowy enough to show him he was indoors, bright enough to know it was daytime. All he could really tell for himself was that the floor was green, and the walls were some shade of off-white. 

Rubbing his eyes to clear the blur, he ignored the heavy pain in his head. Maybe he'd fallen over onto something and bumped it. That would explain his being somewhere he didn't remember arriving at. Or going to. Or travelling at all. In fact, where was the last place he remembered being? Where was here? Now that he looked around without that gunk in his eyes, he could recognise it easily. He was in one of the corridors of Headquarters.

He briefly massaged his head to get the ache out. What was with that? Maybe he should stand up now, too. Lying on the floor of Headquarters was bound to get him in trouble with someone. Havoc would trip over him, or Hawkeye would snap at him to get up and do something useful. If she was in a bad mood, that was.

Climbing to his feet, he stretched out his legs. They were sore as well, as though he hadn't stretched them in a while. He cautiously moved them about, trying to get them to feel normal.

He had just moved on to stretching his arms when he heard a loud crash behind him. Before he so much as had time to turn around, the woman who had been carrying whatever it was that smashed screamed. Loudly. The sound of pounding footsteps echoed on the floor, and by the time he had turned to face her, something leapt on top of him.

Barely able to keep his balance, he found himself staggering about at the impact, automatically wrapping his arms around his new attachment. But now that he noticed, he did seem to have a very lovely, toned pair of thighs wrapped around his waist. And lightly muscled arms around his shoulders. And two exquisite breasts right in front of his eyes. Wait a second . . . he knew the feeling of those legs . . . and he had definitely seen those breasts somewhere before. . . he looked up into a familiar face.

"Riza!?" Flame gasped.

The tears streaming out of her eyes were testimony to the fact itself. At least, he was sure that Hawkeye never cried like that. He hadn't witnessed it, in any case.

"I thought you were dead, Roy," she cried, sobbing into his shoulder. "Where were you? Why didn't you call me?"

"Riza," he repeated, still shocked just to have seen her again. Well, he was also holding her, but rather he hadn't believed he would so much as catch a glimpse of her outside of his dreams again. When was the last time that someone had called him Roy? "Is this a dream?" he asked, dazedly.

"I haven't heard anything from you in so long," she continued, now looking directly at him, smoothing his hair over his head while trying to put a stop to her sniffling – she was failing miserably.

He didn't know how this could be real. It wasn't entirely possible, was it? "I – I've been in another world," he said, still feeling light-headed. "I was dragged away and–"

The sniffles had now stopped. In fact, unless he was mistaken, he was now looking at an extremely avid listener. Her narrowed eyes told him just how avidly she was listening, in fact. He set her down on the ground and nervously looked at the suspicious expression manifesting in her features.

Riza watched him, one hand on the corresponding hip. "Go on, I'm listening," she said acidly.

"Uhh. I just appeared in the middle of this fiery building, and another one of me was on the floor, and he'd brought me there by mistake, and so I took him outside, to where Hawkeye was–"

"Hawkeye?" The frown was definitely not imagined, now. Flame couldn't decide what it showed more of – confusion, or danger.

He paused. "Yes, Hawkeye. She's exactly like you, except more serious."

"Have you been drinking, again?"

Drinking? He laughed. "No, the last time I went drinking was when . . ." He trailed off before he said anymore. The last time he went drinking was when he'd been trying to do Mustang a favour and sort of semi-seduce Hawkeye for him. That wouldn't sound good, no matter how he said it.

However, Riza didn't seem to take his silence well, either. Her eyes widened, and she looked on him with anger. "You _have _been, haven't you? Is that why you were missing? You drank yourself into a stupor and– and– and–"

Flame gulped. "No, I–" he searched frantically for some fragment of an argument that he might just be able to cling to. Was there anything he could say that wouldn't result in–

Click.

Uh oh.

He looked up to see the pistol pointed right at him. At practically point blank range, there was no chance that she'd actually shoot him, right? Not while it was pointed at his head like that. The colour had all rushed from his face. In one second, she began to lower the gun, and he almost breathed a sigh of relief before he saw that she was only re-aiming. He whimpered.

"I promise you, Riza, I was thinking of you the whole time. No one other image ever crossed my mind! You know I love you . . ."

By the end of his plea, he'd caught her off guard enough that when he swooped in, she didn't have time to push him away. His mouth covered hers, and as much as she protested to begin with, hands pushing him away despite the fact that she was the one who stuck her tongue into the mix in the first place, she soon relaxed and allowed him to kiss her. In fact, they were on the road to a lot more than kissing by the time that there was a shout from the other end of the corridor.

They turned in time to see the Fuhrer approaching. Flame's colour deserted him once again, while Riza's cheeks turned a rosy red of embarrassment.

"Fraternisation in the halls?" the Fuhrer asked, shock invading every corner of his voice. He hadn't expected such a sight, obviously. Flame nervously neatened out his uniform – it had become, er, a little messed up in the confusion. "Well, I suppose it can't be helped," he said amiably, and walked off. "Just don't let it interfere with your military decisions!"

Flame watched the man leave, eyes wide as they could stretch. He looked over to Riza, who mirrored his reaction. It took no more than a second for her shock to melt into something more of a predatory gaze, and Flame almost took a step back, not knowing what she was about to do.

She took only a second to launch herself back at him. It didn't take them much longer to find an empty office.

**THE END**

* * *

_Well, it's been a few months, hasn't it? Six? Seven? Eh, something along the lines of that. In any case, this series was fun to write, and I'd like to thank all of my reviewers, especially those who faithfully reviewed time after time. Your comments, suggestions, praise, and corrections really helped me out, and you've all been utterly fantastic to me! I'd also like to thank those who read but didn't review. Reviews are all good and dandy, and I would have loved for you to let me know what you thought, but that you read it at all is still an honour for me. Thank you!_

_A few people actually did take wild stabs as to what was going to happen in this chapter, and I was shocked and surprised by how many got it, or came close. I didn't want to say that you had it, because I wanted it to still be a surprise for you, but well done to you :D_

_Thank you all for everything. Just a quick word of warning – I am considering (considering) writing something of a sequel, but instead of based around the mistakes of how people write characters, the one I've been thinking about is more based around crossovers. The reason for it is that several of my started-but-never-actually-went-anywhere fics were my desperate attempts to mix FMA with something else just because I wanted to write something else, but couldn't step away from my first real fandom :3 So pretty much just because I want an excuse to write one!_

_If you like the idea, let me know, and I might actually think a whole lot more on it, and do it, and if you don't like the idea, let me know, and depending on how well I convince myself, I might do it anyway. Just let me know what you think, so that I can try to make a decision._

_And once again, thank you everyone for your support. I love you all :)_

_-Dai_


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